ndcrtow 


By  ROBERT  E.KNOWLES 


412D 


By    ROBERT    E.    KNOWLES 

loth  Edition 

ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

A  PARISH   ROMANCE 

NEW  YORK  Mail 

"  Mr.  Knowles  has  a  sense  of  humor  that 
sparkles  in  these  pages,  a  genuine  love  of 
humanity,  gentle  patience  with  its  weakness, 
and  a  fine  recognition  of  its  noble  qualities. 
The  book  is  very  human." 

BOSTON  Herald 

"The  book  breathes  a  spirit  of  tenderness 
and  nobility,  which  is  refreshing  and  inspiring. 
Some  of  the  characters  deserve  a  special  setting 
so  lovingly  has  this  big-hearted,  whole-souled 
man  written  them." 

LONDON,  Daily  Chronicle 

"  Charming,  full  of  pawky  Scots  humour  and 
that  subtle  pathos  which  seems  a  part  of  Scots 
humour  and  life.  .  .  .  There  is  many  a  smile 
to  be  brought  from  these  pages,  and  not  a 
few  tears.  Mr.  Knowles  is  a  new  writer  who 
promises  to  be  a  light  in  the  literary  firmament." 

EDINBURGH,  Scotsman 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  praise  too  highly  this 
new  work.  There  is  very  little  indeed  in  the 
ever-growing  literature  of  that  school  which  can 
excel  Mr.  Knowles'  sketches  of  the  life  and  do- 
ings in  a  Scot's  kirk  and  a  Scot's  community." 


THE  UNDERTOW 


ROBERT  E.  KNOWLES 
Author  of  "St.  Cuthbert's" 


New   York         Chicago          Toronto 

Fleming  H.  Revel  I  Company 

London  and          Edinburgh 


Copyright,   1906,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto:  25  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  100  Princes  Street 


TO  ALL 

BY  LIFE'S  UNDERTOW  BESET 
WHO  ARE  YET  BRAVELY  STRUGGLING  ON 

AND  ALREADY  TASTING 
THE  VICTORY  OF  THE  SHORE. 


222S427 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  VALEDICTORIAN  . 

II.  THE  LAST  OF  THE  MORTGAGE 

III.  HIRAM  STIRS  THE  POOL 

IV.  THE  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  THE  NEW 

V.  IN  THE  FURNACE  TWICE 

VI.  THE  SCHOLAR  LEAVES  FOR  ENGLAND 

VII.  LONDON'S  PREACHER-ACTOR 

VIII.  THE  METROPOLIS  BY  LAMPLIGHT 

IX.  A  PEARL  OF  PRICE 

X.  ITS  CASKET  FOR  A  NIGHT    . 

XI.  HATTIE  AND  THE  COMMANDER 

XII.  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  COVENANT    . 

XIII.  A  LIGHT  IN  THE  WINDOW  . 

XIV.  A  HUMBLE  RIVAL 

XV.  THE  GENERAL  AND  THE  WAR       . 

XVI.  THE  DUEL  IN  HYDE  PARK  . 

XVII.  AN  EDINBURGH  VOICE          .          . 

XVIII.  PURSUING  THE  PRECIOUS  PEARL     . 

XIX.  OLD  SCENES  AND  OLD  STRUGGLES 

XX.  HIRAM'S  PRIEST          .         . 

XXI.  A  DOUBLE  LIFE 

XXII.  HATTIE  AND  HIRAM  MEET 

XXIII.  GATHERING  CLOUDS   . 

7 


8  CONTENTS 

XXIV.  THE  GRIP  OF  THE  UNDERTOW    .  .    .  .301 

XXV.  ASHES  ON  THE  HEARTH     .         .  .  •     314 

XXVI.  THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  DAY       .  .  .324. 

XXVII.  "  AND  Go  UNTO  MY  FATHER  "  .  .     334 

XXVIII.  THE  PRODIGAL'S  CRUSADE           .  .  .     340 

XXIX.  LONDON  AND  THE  CHASE    .         .  .  -354 

XXX.  THE  WAY  OF  THE  CROSS  .         .  .  .381 

XXXI.  THE  NEW  COVENANT        ....     399 


THE  UNDERTOW 


The   VALEDICTORIAN 

"      A      ND  now  it  is  my  privilege  to  award  the 
/  \      highest  academic  honour  of  the  year,  the 
JL    JL  Gilchrist  medal,  to  go  to  the  best  all  round 
scholar  of  the  graduating  class.     The  struggle  has 
been  close  and  the  examiners  have  had  no  little  diffi- 
culty;   but  it  has   been   fairly  won   by   a  student 
whose  honours  are  already  thick  upon  him.     I  must 
ask  Mr.  Stephen  Wishart  to  come  to  the  platform 
once  more." 

The  Chancellor's  kindly  eyes  are  turned  toward 
the  quarter  of  the  hall  from  which  the  prizeman 
had  more  than  once  emerged,  smiling  as  the  familiar 
form  starts  slowly  up  the  aisle.  A  storm  of  cheers 
sweeps  through  the  Convocation  Hall,  before  which 
the  advancing  scholar's  head  is  bowed.  Out  of  the 
silence  that  followed  the  ovation  a  solemn  voice 
floated  over  the  audience : 

"  They  knew  that  in  the  coming  time 

Great  things  would  he  achieve  ; 
They  thought  his  name  should  sort  of  rhyme 
And  so  they  called  him  Steve." 

The  audience  turned  and  looked  up  to  the  gallery, 
9 


io  THE   UNDERTOW 

where  they  saw  a  stalwart  figure  in  gown  and  cap, 
gravely  performing  his  laureate  task. 

This  poetic  outburst  provoked  fresh  billows  of  ap- 
plause, amid  which  the  triumphant  made  his  way  to 
the  platform,  the  master  of  ceremonies  greeting  him 
with  some  words  of  eulogy  that  were  swallowed  up 
as  soon  as  launched,  like  toy  boats  in  a  storm. 

When  the  demonstration  had  subsided,  Stephen 
Wishart  looked  first  at  the  gallery,  thronged  with 
his  fellow  students ;  then  turned  his  pale  face  to  the 
Chancellor,  the  latter  less  formidable  than  the  others. 

The  students  hush  each  other  into  silence,  for  it  is 
evident  that  the  man  on  the  dais  has  something  he 
wants  to  say.  Still  Stephen  stands,  gazing  at  the 
gallery. 

"  Speech,  Steve." 

"  Come  away,  Wishart — let  us  have  it ;  turn  on 
the  eloquence." 

"  Shut  up,  he's  going  to  sing — like  the  lark  at  the 
diggings,"  cried  still  another  student,  who  was  well 
up  on  Dickens,  though  he  had  failed  on  Homer. 

The  Chancellor  held  his  hand  up  towards  the 
gallery. 

"  You  will  excuse  Mr.  Wishart  just  now,  gentle- 
men. He  is  to  deliver  the  valedictory  a  little  later, 
as  you  know." 

But  Stephen  interrupted  boldly,  finding  his  tongue 
at  last. 

"  Mr.  Chancellor,"  he  began  in  a  very  shaky  voice, 
silence  settling  as  he  spoke,  "  a  word  is  all  I  want  to 
say.  I  do  not  deserve  this  medal.  It  isn't  rightly 


The    VALEDICTORIAN  n 

mine.  It  ought  to  go  to  one  who  is  a  better  scholar 
and  a  better  man  ;  to  one  who  would  have  had  it  in 
his  hand  this  minute,  if  a  feeble  frame  and  an  attack 
of  sickness  had  not  handicapped  him."  And  stepping 
to  the  edge  of  the  platform  and  pointing  at  a  white- 
faced  lad  whose  pallour  changed  to  scarlet  as  all  eyes 
were  turned  on  him,  "  Every  one  of  us  knows  who  he 
is.  Mr.  Chancellor,  I  might  take  the  medal,  but  the 
honour  is  his  and  I  wish  he  might  have  both." 
The  speaker  paused  as  if  astonished  at  what  he  had 
done  and  hurriedly  regained  his  seat  amid  such  a 
salvo  of  cheers  and  clapping  as  the  old  hall  had 
never  heard  before. 

The  graduating  exercises  were  resumed,  proceed- 
ing a  little  tamely  after  the  tension  that  Stephen 
Wishart's  renouncement  had  created,  even  the  gal- 
lery sails  flapping  in  the  waning  breeze. 

But  they  soon  swelled  again,  !:he  wind  returning 
when  it  was  announced  that  the  hero  of  the  evening 
would  now  deliver  the  valedictory  address.  Some- 
thing like  seriousness  came  over  the  students'  faces, 
especially  of  the  men  graduating  in  theology,  as  their 
spokesman  ascended  the  steps  to  discharge  the  duty 
they  had  entrusted  to  him  ;  for  they  vaguely  recog- 
nized the  solemn  significance  of  it  all,  their  very  mirth 
bearing  the  pathos  of  its  last  boisterous  shout.  Even 
amid  the  hilarity  of  the  night,  they  could  hear  the 
slowly  opening  gate  that  led  to  another  lock  in  life's 
long  canal ;  could  hear  the  dull  scraping  of  that 
gangway  by  which  they  must  embark,  leaving  the 
land-locked  bay  for  the  shoreless  sea  beyond. 


12  THE    UNDERTOW 

Splendid  was  the  type  of  manhood  represented  in 
Stephen  Wishart  as  he  stood  before  them.  Tall  and 
athletic,  in  the  strong  joy  of  perfect  health,  hand- 
some of  face  as  he  was  commanding  of  form,  the  in- 
tellectual power  that  nature  had  bestowed  and  culture 
had  enriched,  was  enhanced  by  great  physical  vigour 
and  pronounced  magnetic  charm. 

Great  strength  marked  his  face.  And  struggle 
too ;  struggle  and  peril,  the  very  peril  that  belongs  to 
a  certain  kind  of  strength,  and  the  very  struggle 
that  loftier  natures  are  ever  doomed  to  know.  For 
there  is  a  kind  of  strength  that  others  feel  more  than 
the  man  who  bears  it,  and  those  who  admire  know 
not  at  what  a  price  it  is  enjoyed. 

Stephen  Wishart's  power  was  of  the  emotions, 
and  a  discerning  eye  could  tell  that  his  face  was  the 
highway  for  their  intensest  action.  Affection,  poetic 
feeling,  glowing  ardour,  flowing  sympathy,  all  min- 
gled in  his  nature,  bringing  their  peril  with  their 
charm.  The  mystic  gift  of  a  creative  fancy,  the  very 
thing  that  Israel's  sweet  singer  found  at  once  his 
solace  and  his  snare,  was  Stephen's  birthright.  This, 
joined  with  rare  mental  ability,  was  his  jewel  gift ; 
and,  like  other  jewels,  endangered  the  very  life  that 
it  enriched. 

His  voice,  rich  of  tone  and  deep  of  feeling,  had 
yet  a  note  of  sadness,  as  though  it  knew  a  secret 
path  to  some  hidden  grave.  Those  who  had  ears  to 
hear  could  have  told,  as  his  stately  speech  flowed  on, 
that  there  had  been  conflict  in  the  past,  still  more  of 
conflict  in  the  days  to  come. 


The    VALEDICTORIAN  13 

His  valedictory  is  nearly  over,  the  audience  thrilled 
by  its  chaste  and  glowing  eloquence. 

"  And  now,"  he  said  at  length,  "  we  bid  you  all 
farewell  as  we  buckle  on  the  armour  and  go  forth 
to  life's  long  battle.  Life's  battle,  I  say,  whose  stern- 
est struggle  shall  be,  not  against  outward  foes  or 
opposing  circumstances,  but  against  secret  enemies, 
against  ghostly  adversaries,  against  principalities  and 
powers,  against  some  festering  memory,  some  beset- 
ting sin,  some  traitor  of  our  own  heart's  household 
who  sits  with  us  at  the  board  and  eats  in  defiant  tri- 
umph the  very  bread  we  eat  in  tears." 

Deep  stillness  reigned  over  the  student  throng,  so 
boisterous  before,  for  they  felt  that  Stephen  was  deal- 
ing with  the  very  realities  of  life. 

"  My  next  and  closing  word,"  went  on  the  valedic- 
torian, "  is  a  far  different  one  from  the  last  that  I 
have  spoken,  but  one  that  should  be  uttered  too.  It 
is  a  word  of  tribute  to  the  scores  of  nameless  ones,  the 
fruit  of  whose  unselfish  labours  is  gathered  in  this 
hall  to-night.  How  many  a  fellow,  now  before  me, 
is  finishing  his  course  with  joy,  equipped  the  better 
for  life's  great  struggle  because  of  the  heroic  toil,  the 
uncomplaining  sacrifice,  of  some  hidden  one  whose 
name  is  unknown  in  College  annals,  to  fame  destined 
never  to  be  known. 

"  I  know  of  one  whose  name  I  speak  reverently 
in  my  silent  heart,  engrossed  this  very  night  in  homely 
toil  upon  a  distant  farm,  that  toil  to  which  he  has 
given  his  ungrudging  hand  for  years.  And  for 
what  ?  For  this  supremely,  that  a  brother,  less 


I4  'THE    UNDERTOW 

worthy  far  than  he,  might  scan  the  ample  page  of 
knowledge,  rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  entering  into 
the  labours  of  that  humble  worker  whose  only  re- 
quital is  the  secret  joy  of  the  unselfish  soul.  I 
know  of  one  who  would  lay  his  laurels  at  that 
brother's  feet." 

The  responsive  spirits  of  the  gallery  were  not  slow 
to  catch  the  significance  of  his  words,  nor  less  tardy 
to  acclaim. 

Long  and  loud  and  lusty  was  the  volley  that 
marked  the  close  of  his  address,  the  students  turning 
one  to  the  other  the  while,  wondering  if  the  tribute  to 
these  unnamed  benefactors  were  founded  on  his  own 
experience.  The  desired  information  was  soon  forth- 
coming. 

"  Of  course  he  means  his  own  brother,"  one  of  the 
theologues  assured.  "  I  visited  at  his  father's  farm 
last  Christmas  and  he  has  described  his  elder  brother 
to  a  nicety — he's  a  brick,  too." 

"  You  don't  say  so,  what's  his  name  ?  "  cried  the 
poet. 

"Reuben,"  answered  the  informant;  "they  call 
him  Rube." 

Armed  with  which,  and  waiting  till  the  din  had 
fallen,  the  poet  rose  to  his  feet  and  called  to  the  ex- 
cited crowd, 

"  I  say,  boys,  I  know  his  name — his  name  is  Rube, 
that  pure  gold  fellow  on  the  farm.  Three  cheers 
for  Rube,  I  say — for  all  the  Rubes,  everywhere — three 
cheers,  hip,  hip " 

And  the   collegians    did   the   rest,  arts  men  and 


The    VALEDICTORIAN  15 

theologues,  science  men  and  medicals  lending  their 
stoutest  lungs  to  the  echoing  panegyric. 

The  Chancellor  cleared  his  throat,  for  the  dust 
was  flying;  when  he  broke  the  silence  that  came 
at  last,  his  voice  still  bore  a  huskiness  that  some- 
thing else  had  caused. 

"  Young  gentlemen,"  he  began,  "  the  rhetoric  of 
your  gifted  valedictorian,  charming  as  it  was,  is  still 
less  eloquent  than  the  generous  action  that  we  all 
admired  ;  and  his  genius  has  been  worthily  loaned  to 
the  great  tribute  which  closed  his  speech.  I  love 
you  all  for  your  noble  response  to  it,  and  I  say : 
'  God  bless  the  Rubes '  (isn't  that  the  name  ?)  I  came 
from  the  farm  myself  and  my  heart  echoes  every 
word  of  Mr.  Wishart's.  God  bless  the  Rubes  ;  "  and 
the  gentle  teacher  paused,  awaiting  the  answering 
artillery  from  the  gallery. 

As  the  scattering  throng,  the  exercises  of  the 
evening  over,  was  filing  slowly  out  of  the  hall,  many 
admiring  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  young  divin- 
ity student  who  had  thus  closed  his  college  course 
with  such  signal  distinction.  But  the  interest  cen- 
tering in  Stephen  Wishart  was  soon  transferred  to 
others,  for  he  had  given  his  arm  to  an  elderly  lady 
whose  resemblance  to  himself  at  once  announced 
her  as  his  mother.  Sweet  and  tender  was  the  face 
which  she  turned  towards  her  brilliant  son,  marked 
by  suffering  and  giving  evidence  of  the  bodily  weak- 
ness which  necessitated  her  full  dependence  on  the 
strong  arm  he  had  extended.  The  beauty  of  peace 
looked  out  from  her  gentle  eyes,  mingling  with  the 


16  THE    UNDERTOW 

purity  and  power  which  marked  a  devout  and 
prayerful  soul. 

And  just  behind,  stooping  with  the  growing  weight 
of  years,  his  face  strong  and  thoughtful,  his  whole 
bearing  lending  an  impression  of  simplicity  and 
goodness,  came  Stephen  Wishart's  father,  his  glance, 
like  the  mother's,  resting  proudly  on  his  accom- 
plished and  distinguished  son. 

The  garb  of  both  these  elder  folk  was  plain  and 
simple,  contrasting  strangely  with  the  rich  apparel  of 
many  in  the  aisle  beside  them,  but  none  could  fail 
to  catch  the  fragrance  and  the  dignity  with  which 
high  and  honourable  hearts  can  clothe  the  humblest. 

They  had  walked  some  distance  along  the  street 
when  his  mother  said  : 

"  Canna  we  gang  some  way  that'll  no  hae  sae 
mony  folk,  Stephen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  think  we  can  ;  there's  a  short  cut 
to  your  hotel  through  this  street  here.  But  it's  rather 
dark." 

"  I'd  sooner  hae  it  dark.  Come,  faither,  we'll  gang 
this  ither  way." 

They  had  proceeded  but  a  little  farther  when  the 
woman  paused,  turning  her  face  upward  to  her 
son's. 

"  Stephen,  my  laddie,  kiss  me — oh,  Stephen,  my 
heart's  ower  full  to  speak.  I  cudna  keep  frae  fearin' 
ye  were  slippin'  awa'  frae  me,  wi'  a'  the  graun  things 
they  were  sayin'  aboot  ye — but  I'm  yir  mither,  and 
I'm  sae  prood  o'  ye ;  kiss  me,  my  laddie,"  and  her 
arm  stole  about  his  neck  in  the  darkness,  holding 


The     VALEDICTORIAN  17 

him  close  in  jealous  love,  breathing  out  her  pride 
and  her  devotion. 

"  Come,  come,"  the  father  interrupted  from  be- 
hind, "  sic  like  daein's  on  a  city  street — they'll  be 
takkin  ye  baith  till  the  lockup.  But  yon  was  graun, 
Stephen,  my  son ;  yir  highest  honour  the  nicht  was 
when  ye  would  have  yon  puir  laddie  tak  the  medal. 
I  was  feart  the  folk  wad  see  me  greetin' — and  yir 
mither  askit  me  for  my  kerchief;  she  said  she  wantit 
to  wave  wi't.  Oh,  mither,  I'll  tell  the  minister  on 
ye,  tryin'  to  mak  me  believe  a  lee  like  that,  wi'  the 
tears  rinnin'  doon  yir  cheeks  a'  the  time.  Ye're  a 
sly  yin,  Jean,  my  wumman." 

"  That's  not  worth  speaking  of,"  their  son  replied, 
disclaiming  the  eulogy ;  "  it  was  no  more  than  the 
right  thing  to  do.  Rube  would  have  done  it  and 
never  thought  of  it." 

"  Oh,  wasna  that  fair  graun  aboot  Reuben,  faither  ? 
To  think  oor  Reuben  had  his  name  cried  oot  afore 
a'  thae  great  folk  at  the  college.  But  it  was  nae  mair 
as  he  deserved,  the  guid  kind  laddie  as  he  is." 

"  Aye,"  agreed  her  husband,  "  it's  no  aften  a  laddie 
like  Reuben  gets  a  degree  like  yon,  and  him  sittin' 
in  the  kitchen,  takkin  aff  his  boots  wi'  the  bootjack 
that  verra  minute,  mebbe.  It  pleased  yon  Moderator 
fine,  yon  Chancellor,  as  they  call  him.  Will  ye  come 
ben  Stephen — it's  no'  ower  late ; "  for  by  this  time 
they  had  reached  the  hotel. 

"  They  smirkit  at  me  when  I  was  comin'  oot  wi' 
yir  mither,"  his  father  continued  as  they  went  up  the 
steps,  "  but  they'll  ken  wha  I  am  noo,  I'll  hold  ye. 


i8  THE    UNDERTOW 

They'll  ken  wha's  faither  I  am,  onyvvay — we  can 
grow  mair  than  turnips  on  oor  land,  can't  we,  mither  ? 
— and  he  belongs  till  us  baith,  even  if  we  dinna  wear 
as  fine  claes  as  some  folk  ;  "  and  the  old  man  swelled 
with  necessary  pride  as  he  passed  into  the  hall,  look- 
ing with  the  eye  of  a  proprietor  on  the  gracious  form 
that  leaned  so  fondly  on  her  tall  and  handsome  son. 

Stephen  tarried  but  a  few  minutes  with  his  parents, 
for  the  hour  was  late,  and  the  homeward  journey 
awaited  them  on  the  morrow.  He  bade  them  good- 
night at  the  door  of  their  room,  his  father's  voice  fol- 
lowing him  down  the  hall. 

"  Ye'll  be  hame  to  help  us  burn  the  mortgage, 
Stephen.  Yir  mither  and  me'll  get  oor  degrees  that 
nicht — and  I'll  juist  gie  them  the  valedictory  mysel. 
Guid  nicht,  my  son." 

The  old  man  turned  and  reentered  his  room.  His 
wife  was  seated  on  the  bed,  and  her  husband  looked 
at  her  fondly  for  a  moment,  then  went  over  and  took 
her  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Ye're  tired,  Jean,  ye're  tired  clean  oot,  are  ye 
no'  ? "  He  sat  down  beside  her  and  she  laid 
her  head  on  his  shoulder,  her  hand  finding  its  well- 
known  way  into  the  hard  palm  that  had  had  so  much 
of  toil. 

"  I'm  ower  happy,  Robert,  I'm  fearin',"  she  an- 
swered, looking  up  into  his  face.  "  Oh,  faither,  it 
seems  wunnerfu',  does  it  no',  that  oor  ain  bairnie 
should  hae  sae  muckle  honour ;  he's  sae  clever,  faither, 
and  sae  learned.  But  I'm  mair  upliftit  that  he's 
to  be  a  minister  o'  the  Everlastin'  Gospel.  We've 


The    VALEDICTORIAN  19 

toiled  sair,  faither,  but  the  reward  is  bonnie,  is  it 
no'  ?  " 

The  rough  hand  stroked  the  gray  locks  with  amaz- 
ing tenderness. 

"  Aye,  mither,  God's  been  guid.  We've  had 
muckle  joy  in  baith  oor  bairns.  Mebbe  we're  no 
sae  prood  o'  Reuben  as  his  brither — Reuben  micht 
hae  been  a  wee  thing  smarter,  nae  doot,  but  ye 
canna  hae " 

But  the  mother's  face,  flushed  a  little,  is  lifted  now 
from  her  husband's  shoulder,  her  protest  foreshad- 
owed on  it. 

"  Dinna  say  that,  Robert,  dinna  say  that.  Reuben's 
mebbe  no'  sae  quick  wi'  the  learnin'  as  his  brither ; 
he  was  aye  slower  wi'  the  buiks,  nae  doot.  But  he 
can  read  gey  weel,  and  he's  handy  wi'  the  pen 
forbye,  he  never  had  a  chance.  Ye  ken  weel, 
faither,  how  Reuben  bided  hame  frae  the  school ;  an' 
he  aye  said  Stephen  was  to  hae  the  learnin',  bein' 
quicker  nor  himsel',  he  said.  And  oh,  faither" — 
Jean's  voice  is  trembling  now — "  he's  been  sae  guid 
an'  faithfu' ;  he's  been  sae  true,  faither,  an'  sae 
unselfish.  Stephen's  no'  sae  unselfish  as  his  brither, 
an' " 

"  What's  that,  Jean,  my  wumman  ?  "  cried  her  hus- 
band, his  eyebrows  lifted  and  a  queer  quizzing  smile 
in  the  eyes  beneath  them,  "  what's  that  ye're  sayin'  ?  " 

"  Ye  unnerstan'  me,  Robert ;  I  dinna  mean  naethin' 
against  the  laddie  we're  sae  prood  o'  the  nicht.  But 
he's  no'  sae  self-forgettin'  by  nature  as  oor  Reuben, 
day  in  an'  day  oot,  I'm  meanin'.  Naebody  is — an' 


20  THE    UNDERTOW 

I'm  juist  as  prood  o'  Reuben  as  the  ither.  I  thocht 
o'  Reuben  the  nicht  when  Stephen  walkit  up  the  aisle 
wi'  the  folk  a'  cheerin'  him.  I  thocht  o'  Reuben 
workin'  i'  the  fields  frae  the  day  licht  till  the  gloamin' 
— an'  a'  the  laddie's  pride  for  his  clever  brither. 
It'll  be  the  day  o'  Reuben's  life  when  he  sees  Stephen 
i'  the  pulpit  in  oor  ain  kirk  at  hame,  will  it  no', 
Robert?  " 

Her  husband  paused,  then  shook  his  head  and 
answered  slowly, 

"  I'm  hopin'  he'll  no*  preach  the  theology  yon 
Professor  gied  us  in  his  prayer  the  nicht." 

"  Whatever  are  ye  meanin',  faither  ?  " 

"  Ye  mebbe  didna  tak  notice  till  him,  Jean ;  but 
I'm  fearin'  he  isna  soond.  I'm  sure  o't.  And 
Stephen  thinks  it's  richt  eneuch — he  tell't  me  that 
afore.  An'  he  said  he'd  like  fine  to  gang  till  Edin- 
burgh to  get  the  latest  learnin'." 

"  What's  that  ye' re  sayin',  Robert  ?  The  laddie 
maunna  leave  us  noo.  What  wasna  soond,  faither  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,  Jean,"  her  husband  answered  gently  ; 
"  it's  mebbe  only  a  notion  o'  my  ain ;  we're  auld 
fogies,  ye  ken,  mither.  An'  noo  we'll  gang  to  rest ; 
ye're  tired,  mither." 

"Aye,  Robert,  I'm  tired  sair;  an'  times,  I  think 
it'll  no'  be  lang  till  I'm  haein  the  rest  I'm  needin' 
— pit  yir  hand  on  my  heart,  faither." 

Jean  lifted  the  furrowed  palm  and  it  rested  ten- 
derly on  her  bosom  for  a  moment,  a  troubled  look  in 
the  old  man's  face. 

"  Dinna  vex  yirsel',  my  lassie ;  it's  the  same  auld 


The    VALEDICTORIAN  21 

faithfu'  heart  that's  cheered  my  ain  sae  lang.  I 
wadna  trade  it  for  ony  i'  the  land ;  God  bless  ye, 
mither,  for  a'  it's  been  to  me.  Come,  my  bonnie, 
we'll  leave  it  in  oor  Faither's  keepin',"  as  he  gently 
drew  her  down  beside  the  bed,  their  hearts  together 
stealing  into  the  pavilion  of  eternal  love. 


The  following  day  was  fading  into  twilight  as  two 
eager  faces  peered  from  the  window  of  the  train. 

"  Look,  mither,  look,  there's  Burnetts'  place. 
There's  their  windmill — an'  the  stack,  yonner,  see 
— an'  that's  Bessie  there,  see,  wi'  the  flowers  in  her 
hand.  She's  a  sonsy  lassie,  is  she  no'  ?  She  canna 
see  us.  Bessie  an'  oor  Rube  '11  mak  a  bonnie  pair 
some  day,  eh,  mither  ?  " 

Jean  Wishart  smiled :  "  I'm  hopin' — an'  I  wadna 
say  it  to  onybody  else — but  I  canna  keep  frae  thinkin', 
faither,  that  Bessie's  awfu'  ta'en  up  wi'  Stephen. 
Mebbe  I'm  wrang,  but " 

"  Hoots,  Jean,  ye're  aye  sair  feart  for  Reuben ; 
it's  naethin'  but  her  admiration  for  a  scholar  laddie. 
Noo  we're  at  the  station — I  see  yir  treasure,  mither; 
Reuben's  got  Prince  by  the  heid — Prince  canna  bide 
the  cars." 

Twenty  minutes  later,  the  setting  sun  clothed  three 
happy  home-goers  in  its  dying  rays,  old  Prince 
jogging  as  slowly  along  the  country  road  as  though 
no  rude  alarms  of  genius  had  ever  disturbed  his 
peace.  The  father  and  mother  sat  erect,  sniffing  the 
sweet  country  air,  belauding  the  flowers  and  blossoms 


22  THE    UNDERTOW 

that  enriched  it,  defining  the  atmosphere  of  the  city 
they  have  left  behind  in  terms  of  frank  ingratitude. 

And  before  them  sat  the  stalwart  form  of  their 
first-born  son,  his  face  suffused  with  happiness  as  he 
listened  to  the  composite  narrative  of  his  brother's 
high  distinction,  the  parental  tongues  flying  in  fervid 
eulogy,  the  son's  eyes  beaming  with  delight.  The 
pale  cast  of  thought  was  not  upon  his  brow,  but  the 
light  of  a  pure  and  earnest  life  was  there  instead,  a 
life  whose  highest  attainments  had  been  those  of  an 
unselfish  heart. 

He  turned  his  head  towards  his  mother  as  they 
passed  in  the  gate. 

"  I  drove  Steve  out  that  very  gate  when  he  first 
started  to  the  college,"  he  said  proudly,  "  and  I'll 
drive  him  in  again.  I  always  said  he'd  cut  a  swath 
when  it  came  to  learning ;  I  knew  they  couldn't  beat 
our  Steve." 


II 

The   LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE 


"  TT"AWAS  maist  awfu'  kind  o'  the  Duke  !     A 

hundred    pounds  —  that's    five   times   as 

JL        mony  dollars  —  maist    five  hundred  dol- 

lars !     And   it  looks  bonny  to  see  the  Kelso  post- 

mark again  !     I  wonder  did  the  Duke  post  it  himsel' 

wi'  his  ain  hands.     A  hundred  pounds,  it's  a  lot  o' 

siller  !  " 

"  What  way  did  he  come  to  send  it,  faither,  div  ye 
think  ?  " 

"  What  way,  Jean  ?  —  What  way  ?  Read  the  letter 
frae  the  Duke  himsel'.  It's  his  sixtieth  birthday,  and 
it  was  my  faither  that  drawed  him  oot  o'  the  burn 
when  he  was  a  laddie  in  petticoats  —  and  him  like  to 
drown  !  And  my  faither  did  him  mony  a  guid  turn 
forbye  that.  He  served  on  the  estate  long  years  ;  and 
so  did  his  faither  afore  him.  That's  the  way  he  came 
to  send  it,  Jean,  ma  wumman  —  no  ither  way,"  answered 
Jean's  radiant  husband,  his  strong  face  glowing  be- 
neath the  frosting  locks. 

"  Whatever  will  ye  dae  wi't  a',  faither?"  resumed 
the  good  wife,  settling  herself  by  the  fire  for  the  deli- 
cious conference. 

A  smiling  blaze  broke  forth  from  the  old  fireplace 
as  Jean's  familiar  form  drew  closer  to  it.  The  back 
log  seemed  to  feel  her  influence  and  stimulated  its 

23 


24  THE    UNDERTOW 

sullen  vassals  into  a  sudden  conspiracy  of  welcome  ; 
her  gentle  presence  had  often  inflamed  it  thus  before. 
The  room  it  warmed  and  beautified  was  the  sitting- 
room  of  the  cheerful  rustic  house  built  in  the  centre 
of  the  land  which  Robert  Wishart's  father  had 
selected  as  his  homestead,  exchanging  the  peaceful 
servitude  of  Scotland  for  the  struggling  freedom  of 
the  Western  world. 

About  this  hospitable  fire,  strong  men  had  gathered 
on  many  a  wintry  night,  fellow  fighters  of  the  forest, 
the  common  peril  and  the  mutual  dependence  making 
neighbours  into  friends,  such  friends  as  the  pioneer 
alone  can  know.  Here  had  they  been  wont  to  meet, 
the  day's  hard  conflict  with  heavy  logs  or  stubborn 
stumps  ending  in  merry  song  and  genial  chat,  many  a 
reminiscence  of  old  Scotland,  or  the  long  sea  voyage, 
or  the  first  days  of  forest  hardship,  mingling  with  the 
cheery  blaze. 

And  this  very  night  it  was  to  be  the  willing  agent 
in  the  crowning  ceremony ;  toil  and  sacrifice  were  to 
have  their  coronation  at  its  glowing  hands — the 
mortgage  was  to  be  burned,  long  the  cumberer  of 
their  fruitful  acres  and  the  disturber  of  their  peace. 

"  Whatever  will  ye  dae  wi't  a",  faither  ?  "  Jean  asked 
again,  more  eagerly  than  before  ;  for  her  husband  was 
still  gazing  into  the  leaping  blaze. 

"  What'll  I  dae  wi't  ?  "  he  answered  meditatively. 
"  I've  been  thinkin'  o'  that.  The  first  thing  I'll  dae  is 
to  take  the  bit  o'  paper  to  the  bank  in  the  village  and 
get  the  siller  for  it.  I  want  to  see  it  and  hear  it  and 
feel  it  in  my  hand.  No'  siller  exactly,  mebbe 


The  LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE      25 

—but  money  onyway — bills,  ye  ken — twenty  dollar 
bills  I  think  I'll  hae,  and  I'll  hae  twenty-five  o'  them. 
Twenty-five  o'  them  and  a'  oor  ain  !  Bless  me,  but  it 
was  maist  awfu'  kind  o'  the  Duke ! " 

Robert  Wishart  settled  back  in  his  chair,  the  same 
in  which  his  father  had  settled  back  when  life's  long 
fever  was  spent  and  gone.  He  spread  the  magic 
paper  out  anew  upon  his  knee,  adjusted  his  trusty 
glasses,  unchanging  with  his  changing  sight,  read  the 
wondrous  message  over  again,  then  turned  smiling 
towards  his  wife  : — 

"  Is't  no'  wonderful  the  power  o'  a  bit  o'  paper 
when  a  Duke  taks  a  notion  to  pit  his  hand  till't  ?  I 
dinna  like  to  gie  up  the  signature  ;  but  the  siller'll  be 
a  sair  comfort." 

"  Ye'll  write  and  thank  him  and  ye'll  get  his  name 
in  answer  till't,"  suggested  the  canny  Jean. 

"  Hoots,  wumman  !  what's  the  maitter  wi"  us  ?  We 
hae  his  name  at  the  foot  o'  the  letter  he  sent  us — and 
he  wrote,  it  himsel'.  We'll  aye  keep  that,  ye  may  be 
sure ;  but  I'll  write  and  thank  him  the  morn,  for  a' 
that." 

"  Stephen'll  gie  ye  a  hand  at  the  writin' :  he's  bonny 
wi'  the  pen.  But  ye  didna  tell  me  what  ye're  minded 
to  dae  wi'  the  money,  faither.  Ye'll  no'  leave  it  in 
the  bank,  will  yv  ?  " 

"  Na,  na,"  answered  her  husband  promptly.  "  I'll 
no  dae  that — none  o'  yir  new  fangled  ways  for  me. 
A  man's  ain  hoose  is  the  place  for  his  siller.  And 
concernin'  what  I'll  dae  wi't  after  I  get  it — I've  been 
thinkin'  aboot  that,  as  I  tell't  ye.  It's  no'  to  be 


56  -THE    UNDERTOW 

scattered  foolishly.  I'm  thinkin'  some  o'  gi'en  a 
pickle  o't  to  Stephen — he's  wantin'  mair.  He's 
mindit  to  gang  till  Edinburgh,  as  I  tell't  ye ;  but  it'll 
no'  be  scattered  foolishly,  an'  that's  a'  I  can  say  the 
noo." 

He  stopped,  for  footsteps  could  be  heard  without 
the  door;  which,  opening  suddenly,  admitted  a 
comely  form  upon  whom  the  eyes  of  both  fell  with  a 
distinct  tenderness  of  affection.  It  was  Reuben, 
whose  glowing  cheeks  and  brawny  arms  confirmed 
the  suggestion  of  his  homely  garb,  that  the  stern 
toil  of  the  farm  and  its  rich  rewards  were  his. 
His  eye  beamed  with  the  light  of  honour  and  con- 
tentment, beautifully  blent,  his  face  enriched  with 
much  of  nature's  kindliest  gift.  This  was  now  in- 
tensified by  the  smile  of  happiness  which  played 
upon  it,  as  became  the  bearer  of  good  tidings. 

"  Steve's  home,"  he  said  quietly,  as  he  closed  the 
door. 

"  That's  guid  news,"  cried  the  father, "  he  promised 
me  he'd  be  here  the  nicht.  Where  is  he,  Reuben  ?  " 

"  I  left  him  at  the  gate,"  answered  the  elder  son  ; 
"he  was  talking  to  Mr.  Shearer.  I  drove  him  from 
the  station.  Of  course  he'll  be  coming  in,  father ; 
who  should  be  the  first  to  rejoice  ,vith  those  who 
rejoice,  if  it  isn't  the  minister  ?  And  there'll  be  many 
more.  I  can  see  some  of  them  from  the  window — the 
Elliotts,  the  Douglases,  the  Gillespies, — they're  all  on 
the  way — and  that  gray  team  just  turning  in  the  gate, 
that  must  be  the  Olivers.  It's  a  grand  time  we're 
going  to  have  to-night." 


The  LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE      27 

"  Div  ye  ken,  Reuben,"  said  the  father,  "  what  I 
canna  help  but  think  o'  when  I  see  the  teams  drivin' 
sae  canty  to  the  door  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  don't,"  the  son  replied.  "  What  is  it, 
father?" 

"  I  canna  but  think  how  easy  it  is  noo,  and  how 
different  frae  my  faither's  time,  when  he  had  nocht 
but  a  blazed  trail  to  guide  him  hame.  It's  a  far  cry 
since  then,  but  I  mind  it  weel — the  deep  snaw  and 
the  bitter  cauld  i'  the  winter  time,  and  the  hard  work 
fellin'  the  michty  trees,  and  siller  sair  scarce  forbye — 
but  thae  days  were  happy  days  for  a'  that,  and  nae 
man  wanted  leal  hearts  aboot  him,  and  a'  the  neebours 
was  knit  wi'  love  and  kindness.  And  the  guid  Lord 
set  His  seal  to  the  labours  o'  their  hands,  and  He  has 
done  as  muckle  for  us  tae,  has  He  no',  mither  ?  " 

This  reminiscent  hymn  was  checked  before  the 
mother's  voice  was  heard,  for  feet  were  stamping  at 
the  door.  It  opened  in  a  moment  and  the  good  man 
of  the  house  hurried  forward  to  welcome  the  ap- 
proaching guests. 

"  Guid-nicht  and  welcome,  Mr.  Shearer ;  it's  wel- 
come ye  are  the  nicht ;  come  in  ;  draw  up  to  the 
fire,  we're  lucky  to  hae  a  chilly  nicht  for  this  time  o' 
the  year.  Weel,  Stephen,  my  laddie,  is  this  you  ? 
You're  welcome  hame,  my  son.  Reuben  tells  me  ye 
twa  hae  been  tryin'  a  bit  argyment  aboot  theology — 
that's  aye  the  thing  to  sharpen  the  wits,  as  my  faither 
used  to  say — the  bigger  the  grind-stone,  the  better 
the  blade, — that  was  his  way  o'  puttin'  it.  Tak  him, 
mither,  he's  as  muckle  yir  ain  as  ever." 


28  THE    UNDERTOW 

The  woman  caressed  her  son  with  unwonted  ten- 
derness, jealous,  as  all  mothers  are,  of  widening  hori- 
zons, and  enlarging  spheres,  and  diverging  paths. 

"  It  is  always  lovely  to  get  home,  mother  ;  there  is 
only  one  home  and  only  one  mother — and  only  one 
supper  worth  the  eating,"  he  concluded,  "  no  matter 
how  many  fine  dinners  you  attend  in  what  they  call 
high  society." 

His  mother  flushed  with  pleasure,  touched  with 
pride.  "  High  society,"  and  her  own  son  a  sharer  in 
it !  Jean  was  quite  feminine  enough  to  feel  the 
thrill  of  pride  that  this  reflection  wakened. 

"  Whenever  you  want  '  high  society/  Stephen,  I 
advise  you  to  come  home.  I  have  seen  a  little  of  all 
kinds  myself,  and  my  estimate  puts  these  old  folks  at 
the  top.  I  think  we  have  some  of  the  true  nobility 
right  here  beside  us — and  I  see  a  few  of  them  coming 
to  the  door." 

Thus  spoke  Mr.  Shearer,  whose  quick  eye  detected 
much  pertaining  to  both  the  outward  and  the  in- 
ward life.  His  observation  of  the  former  was  evi- 
dently accurate  enough,  for  in  a  moment  a  light  rap 
fell  upon  the  door,  and  its  opening  revealed  a  group 
of  the  honest  yeomanry  who  had  come  to  swell,  and 
to  share,  the  gladness  of  the  hour.  The  nobility  of 
character  with  which  the  minister's  kindly  thought 
had  clothed  them  was-  obvious  almost  at  a  glance ; 
for  their  stalwart  frames,  their  genial  countenances, 
their  soulful  eyes,  all  spoke  of  simple  tastes  and 
hardy  toil  and  sweet  content. 

The  picturesque  hoods  of  the  women,  a  bonnet 


The  LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE      29 

here  and  there,  and  the  light  shawls  which  wrapped 
the  willowy  forms  or  the  wavy  hair  of  many  a  win- 
some maiden,  lent  a  pleasing  variety  to  the  interest- 
ing group. 

The  cordial  welcome  of  Robert  Wishart  and  his 
wife  was  as  cordially  accepted  and  only  a  few  mirth- 
ful minutes  had  passed  before  the  whole  company 
was  seated  at  the  hospitable  board,  the  host  abdi- 
cating the  seat  of  honour  to  the  minister,  as  was  the 
custom  of  that  place  and  time.  The  Divine  blessing 
having  been  lengthily  invoked,  and  the  provocations 
to  human  gratitude  recounted  in  detail,  the  good 
man  led  the  way,  his  cheerful  parishioners  joining 
heartily  in  the  chase,  pursuing  to  its  lair  and  its  de- 
struction every  toothsome  thing  that  Jean  Wishart's 
culinary  genius  had  called  to  being. 

The  cheerful  supper  done,  the  company  returned 
to  the  fireplace.  Pipes  were  filled  and  lighted  with 
solemn  interest,  the  several  streams  of  smoke  finding 
their  confluence  at  the  chimney  mouth,  joining  hands 
and  disappearing  with  a  sudden  bound,  like  children 
escaping  through  a  schoolroom  door.  One  after  an- 
other of  the  worthy  farmers  gave  a  final  tap  to  adjust 
the  new-lighted  weed,  snapped  the  ashy  fire  from  the 
fingers,  and  planted  heavy  hob-nailed  boots  upon 
the  trusty  fender,  settling  themselves  before  the  sym- 
pathetic flame  with  a  guttural  murmur  of  content. 

Then  the  conversation,  hitherto  worthy  of  Babel, 
suddenly  began  to  flag ;  for  the  company,  sensitive 
to  the  significance  of  the  hour,  would  thus  afford 
their  host  his  opportunity. 


30  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Will  we  hae  the  cider  first,  faither,  or  after  ?  " 
asked  Jean  in  an  undertone.  Robert  paused  a 
moment.  It  was  the  habit  of  his  life  to  answer  no 
question,  however  trifling  it  might  seem  to  be,  with- 
out due  reflection. 

"  It'll  be  better  by  and  by.  We'll  hae  oor  bit 
word  noo." 

Robert  cleared  his  throat,  whereupon  the  minister 
rose  and  laid  his  pipe  upon  the  mantel,  a  signal  to 
come  to  order  that  was  immediately  recognized  by 
his  fellow  guests  and  almost  as  immediately  obeyed. 

Then  their  host  arose  and  began  to  speak,  not 
without  obvious  embarrassment :  — 

"  My  freens,  I  bid  ye  a'  welcome  to  Rosehill  Farm 
the  nicht.  Ye've  been  a'  here  afore,  mony  a  time,  in 
baith  joy  and  sorrow.  When  the  day  was  bricht,  ye 
were  wi"  us  oftentimes  ;  and  when  the  mirk  was  sair, 
ye  were  oftener.  Some  o'  ye  helpit  to  build  the 
hoose  itsel' ;  and  ye  hae  aye  keepit  it  bricht  wi'  yir 
kindness  and  yir  love.  We  hae  warstled  through 
thegither ;  and  noo  we're  rejoicin'  because  there's 
nocht  o'  debt  upon  the  auld  place  ony  mair.  I've 
lived  and  prayed  and  workit  for  this  hour,  and  noo 
the  land  my  faither  settled  on,  and  cleared,  and  tilled, 
the  land  that  holds  his  restin'  form,  it's  oor  ain,  wi' 
naethin'  against  it — and  the  guid  wife  has  done  it 
maistly  a' — dinna  look  doon  like  that,  Jean,  ma 
wumman  ;  ye  ken  I'm  but  tellin'  the  truth — and  baith 
Jean  and  me  thank  ye  frae  our  hearts." 

The  old  farmer  paused  for  a  moment,  his  hand 
forthgoing  to  the  breast  pocket  of  his  Sabbath  coat, 


The  LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE      31 

a  fine  garment  of  black  that  he  prized  all  the  more 
because  it  had  been  his  father's.  He  produced  there- 
from a  bulky  document,  almost  as  new  and  unfrayed 
as  when  his  father  first  had  signed  it ;  for  its  contents 
had-  not  afforded  enjoyable  reading  to  the  Wishart 
household  since  it  became  their  own. 

"  It's  the  mortgage,"  Robert  said  simply  as  he 
drew  it  forth,  unfolding  it  the  while  and  adjusting  his 
spectacles.  Quick  glances  from  his  friends  to  the 
paper  and  from  the  paper  back  to  his  friends,  light 
and  shade  alternating  in  his  eyes,  denoted  Robert 
Wishart's  confidence  in  the  one  and  his  suspicion  of 
the  other. 

"  There's  naethin'  to  dae  but  this,  I  suppose,"  he 
said  at  last,  "  and  that's  no'  difficult  to  dae.  I'll  dae 
it  noo,"  he  concluded  simply ;  and  with  a  final  and 
radiant  glance  around  the  attentive  circle,  he  tossed 
the  once  malignant  thing,  now  robbed  of  its  venomed 
tongue,  into  the  eager  fire,  which  wrought  its  quick 
revenge  upon  it,  swallowing  it  up  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye  and  crackling  merrily  as  though  it  knew  the 
completeness  of  its  triumph. 

Robert  resumed  his  chair,  Reuben  finding  a  place 
upon  the  arm  of  it,  his  glance  meeting  his  father's  in 
mute  rejoicing.  The  latter,  unaccustomed  to  the 
role  of  chairman,  nodded  towards  Mr.  Shearer ; 
who  rose  to  his  feet,  extending  his  hand  as  he 
did  so. 

"  Mr.  Wishart,  we  rejoice  with  you  to-night,"  said 
the  minister ;  "  we  congratulate  you  on  this  reward 
of  your  faithful  labours.  But  you  have  won  more 


32  THE    UNDERTOW 

than  your  broad  acres — you  have  won  the  respect 
and  the  love  of  your  neighbours,  of  every  man  who 
rejoices  with  you  to-night,  and  of  all  the  countryside. 
May  your  father's  God  keep  and  bless  you  and  your 
dear  wife,  and  all  who  are  so  dear  to  you,  and  to  her, 
and  to  Him.  And  may  the  eventide  be  very  bright 
about  you ! " 

One  or  two  of  the  others  followed  the  minister ; 
but  their  words  were  as  halting  as  they  were  kindly, 
for  public  speaking  was  not  in  common  vogue  among 
these  stalwart  toilers.  They  concluded  with  the 
hearty  proffer  of  hardened  palms,  as  heartily  gripped 
by  their  neighbour  and  his  rejoicing  wife,  well  equipped 
for  this  exercise  by  the  long  practice  of  a  native  gift. 
As  each  man  returned  to  his  chair,  he  lifted  his  pipe 
from  the  mantel,  and  soon  the  separate  rills  of 
smoke  were  finding  again  their  outlet  to  the  ocean 
blue. 

Jean's  keen  instinct  scented  the  proper  moment. 
w  Noo'll  be  the  time  for  the  cider,  faither — and  the 
cake."  Her  husband  nodded  assent,  and  both  of  the 
aforementioned  were  speedily  produced. 

"  Here's  a  toast  to  ye,  guid  freens,"  cried  Andrew 
Telfer  suddenly,  holding  his  glass  aloft.  "  A  toast 
to  Robert  Wishart  and  his  wife,  I  say ;  and  I  bid  ye 
a'  drink  hearty !  Guid  health  and  mony  years  to 
them  baith!  Half  o'  what  they  deserve  is  guid 
enough  for  onybody  !  " 

More  palatable  than  speech-making  was  this  fashion 
of  friendship's  pledge  to  these  earnest  men,  who 
accepted  the  challenge  with  a  stifled  cheer,  springing 


The  LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE      33 

to  their  feet  at  the  word,  and  draining  their  glasses 
with  equal  goodwill  to  their  hosts  and  satisfaction  to 
themselves. 

"  Gie  us  a  song,  Jock  Sudden — gie  us  «  Bonny 
Doon,'  "  called  one  of  the  stalwarts,  whose  great- 
grandfather had  drunk  many  a  toast  with  Burns 
himself,  unconscious  that  his  boon  companion  was 
one  of  the  Immortals.  "  Gie  us  '  Bonny  Doon,'  " 
he  cried  again. 

"  This  is  no  time  for  ony  song  but  yin,"  responded 
Jock ;  "  I'm  thinkin'  o'  the  loggin',  and  the  plowin', 
and  the  reapin', — the  cold  and  the  heat  we've  stood 
thegither  wi'  these  true  freens  o'  ours.  I  canna  for- 
get a'  the  joys  and  the  sorrows  o'  the  years  that's 
ahint  us.  And  there's  only  ae  song  that's  fittin' — 
and  it's  aye  fittin'  for  a  time  like  this.  Where's  yir 
fiddle,  Reuben  ?  " 

Jean  knew  well  its  resting-place;  and  almost  as 
Jock  uttered  his  request  she  was  on  her  knees  before 
the  old  settee.  Drawing  it  forth,  she  handed  it  to 
Reuben,  who  needed  no  urging  to  his  task.  "  What'll 
it  be,  Jock  ?  "  he  said,  as  he  imprisoned  it  beneath 
his  chin. 

"  Dinna  be  puttin'  on  ony  airs,  Reuben.  Ye  ken 
fine,  Rube  !  What  wad  we  sing  the  nicht,  forbye  the 
song  I'm  thinkin'  o'  ?  " 

Reuben  smiled,  drew  his  bow  across  the  strings, 
sounded  the  undying  strain,  and  every  ploughman's 
heart  heard  again  the  voice  of  the  mightiest  of  their 
craft.  Music  was  wedded  now  to  love,  which  alone 
reveals  the  former  as  a  queen  and  brings  her 


34  THE    UNDERTOW 

into  her  stately  kingdom.  Stern  lips  took  up  the 
words,  gently  caressing  them  while  they  sang,  every 
face  glowing  with  tender  light.  The  fire-gleam  fell 
laughingly  upon  the  earnest  throng,  the  same  gleam 
as  had  lightened  their  days  of  darkness  and  now  en- 
hanced their  hour  of  almost  solemn  joy.  The  sturdy 
frames  blended  in  the  firelight,  moving  closer  the  one 
to  the  other,  the  same  faithful  frames  as  had  stood 
shoulder  to  shoulder  in  pioneer  toil  and  peril ;  heavy 
feet  kept  time  lightly  on  the  oaken  floor  as  the  great 
lines  came  in  unison  from  their  lips  : 

"  We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn 
Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine," 

soft  glances  interflowing  from  eyes  that  were  not 
used  to  moistness.  Robert  Wishart's  glance  never 
turned  from  his  wife's  beaming  face,  and  hers  saw  no 
other  but  his  own;  for  the  long  struggle  had  afforded 
them  a  battle-tent,  unentered  by  any  but  their  own 
two  faithful  hearts. 

"  Dinna  tak  yin  anither's  hands  till  the  second 
verse,"  sang  out  Jock,  an  extra  breath  devoted  to  the 
order — for  some  of  the  ardent  youthful  hands  were 
anticipating  the  climax  of  this  great  carol  of  the 
heart. 

The  fiddle  bore  them  on  and  its  liquid  stream 
laved  the  mighty  promontory : 

"  So  gie's  a  hand,  my  trusty  freen 
And  here's  a  hand  o'  mine," 

whereat   hard  hands  and  tender  hearts,  both  alike 


The  LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE      35 

mellowed  by  the  rich  summer  of  a  life-long  toil,  went 
forth  to  meet  and  to  cling  to  hands  and  hearts  as 
tender  as  their  own. 

During  much  of  the  evening,  Stephen  had  stood 
aloof,  his  face  alone  denied  its  share  of  the  almost 
unshadowed  glow  that  wreathed  the  happy  farmhouse 
in  its  genial  light.  Most  of  the  company  had  been 
the  friends  of  his  early  youth ;  but,  whether  due  to  ; 
their  shyness  toward  the  young  student,  or  to  the 
embarrassment  that  even  brief  absence  will  sometimes 
bring  to  sensitive  natures,  he  had  stood  all  the  evening 
on  the  shore,  watching  the  flow  of  happy  hearts, 
rather  than  mingling  with  its  joyous  tide. 

His  mother's  watchful  eye  had  been  the  first  to 
note  the  jarring  circumstance,  but  no  word  passed  her 
lips,  nor  any  glance  of  eye  marked  her  disquietude. 
When,  however,  the  happy  circle  had  framed  itself  in 
obedience  to  Jock's  cheery  summons,  and  Stephen 
was  not  within  it,  she  could  forbear  no  longer. 

"  Come  awa',  my  laddie,"  she  called  gently,  "  come 
awa'  wi'  the  ithers.  Let's  lilt  Auld  Lang  Syne  the- 
gither." 

Stephen  arose,  compelling  a  responsive  smile,  and 
drew  near  to  the  waiting  ring.  His  mother  moved 
slightly  to  make  room  for  him  beside  her,  but  Stephen 
either  saw  her  not,  or  pretended  that  he  did  not  see ; 
and  passed  quickly  to  the  side  of  another  member  of 
the  group.  This  other  was  a  girl  of  about  nineteen 
years  of  age,  who  turned  and  looked  at  Stephen  as  if 
much  surprised  when  he  chose  his  place  beside  her. 
But  the  glowing  cheek  seemed  to  indicate  that  sur- 


)6  THE    UNDERTOW 

t 
prise  was  not  altogether  unmingled  with  emotion, 

and  the  kindling  eye  confirmed  the  thought  in  at 
least  one  heart  of  those  about  her. 

Tall  and  sinewy,  endowed  with  that  peculiar  out- 
ward grace  which  culture  cannot  simulate,  Bessie 
Burnett  might  well  have  called  to  herself  the  worth- 
iest hands  in  any  circle  that  wreathed  itself  for  song. 
Gentle  tides  of  health  found  their  pathway  in  her 
cheek,  sweet  and  fair  with  the  health-giving  flow ; 
her  fair  hair  hung  in  artless  tresses  about  her  brow,  or 
fell  in  untrained  beauty  upon  white  throat  and  bosom 
exposed  in  girlish  innocence.  Beauty,  rather  than 
character,  marked  her  face. 

It  was  beside  this  winsome  maiden  that  Stephen 
chose  his  place.  He  had  not  been  careful  to  remark 
whose  place  he  had  supplanted,  or  whom  it  was  he 
had  almost  pushed  aside  by  his  impulsive  choice ;  and 
it  was  only  when  the  singers  began  to  proffer  mutual 
hands  that  he  turned  to  see.  And  behold !  the  face 
that  met  his  own  was  his  brother  Reuben's,  paler  now 
than  Stephen  had  ever  seen  it  before ;  and  the  eyes 
had  in  them  a  strange  admixture  of  challenge  and 
appeal  as  they  fell  on  Stephen's  ardent  gaze. 

"  So  gie's  a  hand  my  trusty  freen 
And  here's  a  hand  o'  mine." 

Thus  rolled  the  song  from  every  honest  heart,  and 
it  was  swelled  by  Stephen's  robust  voice,  by  Bessie's 
trembling  lips,  by  Reuben's  faltering  note.  Into 
Stephen's  strong  hand  stole  Bessie's  fluttering  palm, 
while  Reuben's,  expectant  of  a  different  trust,  hung 


The  LASr  of  The  MORTGAGE      37 

limp  and  cold  within  his  brother's.  Stephen  vainly 
sought,  by  cordial  pressure,  to  prompt  it  to  a  warmer 
grasp — for  a  temporary  victory  affords  the  victor 
temporary  grace. 


Ill 

HIRAM    STIRS    The    POOL 

THE  next  morning  Stephen  was  early  astir. 
No  one  was  about,  evidently  no  one  up,  as 
he  went  down-stairs  and  wended  his  way 
outward  to  the  barn,  the  scene  alike  of  work  and 
play  in  the  days  he  rejoiced  to  think  were  now  be- 
hind forever.  He  stroked  the  faces  of  the  soft-eyed 
horses,  outstretched  to  him  above  their  mangers,  the 
faithful  brutes  recognizing  no  necessity  for  change. 
They  sounded  their  breakfast  call  as  they  had  been 
wont  to  do,  and  Stephen  passed  on  to  the  bin,  return- 
ing amid  the  din  of  stamping  feet  and  hungry  whin- 
nying, to  pour  their  oats  before  them.  He  was  re- 
warded by  that  ever  comfortable  sound  of  horses 
amid-meal,  munching  in  manifest  delight. 

Then  he  turned  his  steps  toward  the  mow,  still 
snugly  filled  with  hay ;  and  memory  brought  before 
him  many  a  scene  of  romping  merriment  and  many 
a  theatre  of  skill  and  daring  in  the  days  that  were 
now  gone  by.  Yonder  had  they  leaped  from  the 
topmost  rafter  into  the  billowy  straw,  feigning  the 
heroic  plunge  from  deck  to  ocean — there  had  swung 
and  swayed  the  swing,  of  blessed  memory ;  higher 
still,  from  beam  to  beam,  they  had  laid  the  slender 
pole  which  only  the  daring  would  undertake  to  walk, 
and  they  only  when  inspired  by  awestruck  eyes  and 

38 


HIRAM   STIRS    The    POOL          39 

bated  breath  of  gentle  forms,  chief  among  which  he 
recalled  one  whose  golden  tresses  they  were  wont  to 
deck  with  crown  of  fragrant  clover. 

Whereat  the  stream  of  memory  flowed  down,  down 
and  back  till  it  paused  at  the  very  night  before,  the 
night  on  which  this  morn  had  risen.  He  shook  him- 
self from  the  tangled  meshes  of  his  dream  as  a  swim- 
mer strives  to  hurl  the  seaweed  from  his  arms.  Upon 
the  scene  that  prompted  it  he  turned  his  back,  walk- 
ing slowly  out  to  the  barnyard. 

"  Good-morning,  Stephen — you  are  out  early — I 
reckon  study  isn't  good  for  sleeping." 

He  turned  quickly  and  encountered  an  engaging 
face,  that  of  a  man  about  his  own  age.  Hiram 
Barker  had  come  a  youth  from  England  and  had  at- 
tached himself  to  the  place  some  years  before,  indif- 
ferent to  wage,  asking  only  to  learn  the  farmer's  art. 
Vague  rumours  were  afloat  concerning  his  superior 
connections  in  the  old  world,  though  these  had  never 
been  substantiated.  His  manners  were  worthy  of  the 
highest  station,  marked  by  every  evidence  of  refine- 
ment ;  and  his  mental  habits  were  as  vigorous,  and 
their  outcome  as  fruitful,  almost,  as  Stephen's  own. 

"  Good-morning,  Hiram,"  answered  Stephen,  the 
vision  of  the  man's  tranquil  countenance  evidently 
affording  him  as  little  pleasure  as  the  sound  of  his 
suggestive  voice.  "  It's  a  fine  morning,"  he  con- 
tinued ;  "  I've  fed  the  horses  their  grain." 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  Stephen — seems  like  old 
times,"  the  man  rejoined  familiarly,  "  not  every  horse 
gets  its  feed  from  a  preacher's  hand." 


40  THE    UNDERTOW 

Stephen  flushed  with  irritation  as  he  noticed  the 
derisive  tone  and  caught  the  gibe  so  noticeable  in  the 
words.  He  started  onward  to  the  house. 

But  Hiram  had  no  intention  that  the  interview 
should  end  so  abruptly. 

"  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,  Steve ;  can't  you  wait 
a  minute  for  old  sake's  sake  ?  I'm  uncommon  proud 
of  my  old  chum.  It  did  me  good  to  see  you  last 
night,  a  college  bred  man  like  you,  among  all  those 
hayseeds,  even  if  you  didn't  exactly  join  in  with 
them." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Hiram ;  I  don't  understand  what 
you're  talking  about.  And  I'll  have  you  to  under- 
stand that  I  don't  want  my  parents  or  my  friends 
described  that  way,"  answered  Stephen,  disgust  with 
the  man,  and  fear  of  him,  both  mingling  in  his 
voice. 

"  Don't  be  so  crusty,  Steve.  I  meant  no  harm  ;  but 
I  couldn't  help  feeling  last  night  that  my  old  friend 
had  outgrown  me,  swum  away  on  ahead,  you  under- 
stand. You  used  to  be  the  life  of  every  company 
like  that  we  had  last  night.  But  ytm  seemed  so 
changed  and  distant  that  I  couldn't  help  feeling  my 
old  chum  wasn't  there  at  all.  I  changed  my  mind, 
however — it  was  something  you  did  yourself  that 
changed  it."  And  Hiram  smiled  right  knowingly. 

"What  was  that?"  Stephen  asked  quickly, 
prompted  by  an  impulsive  curiosity.  "  I  didn't  do 
anything  specially  remarkable  that  I  know  of." 

"  Nothing  very  remarkable,  Stephen,  as  you  say — 
but  it  gave  you  back  to  me  again.  It  was  when  you 


HIRAM  STIRS   The   POOL          41 

broke  in  between  Rube  and  Bessie.  By  jove,  didn't 
she  look  stunning  last  night  ?  And  you  made 
straight  for  her,  Steve — oh,  yes,  you  made  straight 
for  her — and  the  old  light  was  in  your  eye,  and  I 
said  to  myself: — '  That's  my  old  Steve  back  again, 
preacher  or  no  preacher,  that's  my  old  Steve  sure 
enough.'  You  always  had  an  eye  for  the  fair  ones, 
Stephen,  and  the  pulpit  isn't  going  to  put  it  out,  I'm 
afraid."  And  Hiram  laughed  aloud  till  the  fowl  in 
the  barnyard  echoed  back  the  strain. 

Stephen's  face  was  crimson  with  shame  and  anger. 
"  Your  insults  are  lost  on  me,"  he  retorted  hotly. 
"  Nobody  but  a  fool  could  understand  you,  for  you 
talk  the  language  of  a  fool.  What  has  anything  you 
saw  last  night  got  to  do  with  you,  or  the  light  in  my 
eye,  or  any  of  my  past  that  you  know  anything 
about  ? "  he  cried,  conscious  of  the  medley  of  his 
words,  yet  avoiding  a  directer  question. 

The  laughter  vanished  from  the  face  of  his  tor- 
mentor as  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  Stephen,  and 
serious  disdain  could  be  seen  within  them. 

"  Don't  try  any  heroics  on  with  me,"  he  said  at 
length,  in  lower  tones  than  either  of  them  had  used 
before ;  "  there's  no  reason  why  you  and  I  should 
quarrel.  All  I  want  is  that  we  should  understand 
each  other.  I  don't  forget  so  easily,  Steve  Wishart. 
You  know  what  I  mean — you've  done  meaner  for  me 
than  you  ever  did  for  Rube !  You  remember  Li — 
but  I  needn't  mention  names.  You  are  no  more 
likely  to  forget  than  I  am.  That  was  before  you  were 
'  called,'  as  you  say,  to  the  ministry." 


42  THE   UNDERTOW 

"  You  may  taunt  me  as  you  please,"  answered  the 
unhappy  Stephen,  "  and  I  don't  make  out  everything 
I  did  to  be  right.  But  remember  one  thing,  Hiram, 
it  was  you  who  first  taught  me  the  ways  of  sin — you 
taught  me  to  take  sin  by  the  hand,  and  God  knows 
the  whole  warfare  of  my  life  is  to  put  out  the  fire  that 
no  one  kindled  but  yourself." 

"  Yes,"  broke  in  the  other  passionately,  not  wait- 
ing for  his  companion  to  conclude.  "  I  taught  you, 
I  know,  as  I  was  taught  by  others  ;  and  I  have  had  my 
punishment.  You  know  how  I  loved  her — and  never 

loved  anybody  else Yes,  I've  been  punished, 

as  I  said.  The  Bible  that  you're  going  to  preach 
says  : — '  Your  sin  will  find  you  out,'  and  you  have  my 
permission  to  say  it's  true.  I'll  help  you  preach  that 
much,  Steve.  If  any  of  your  hearers  doubt  it,  refer 
them  to  Hiram  Barker,  Rosehill  Farm — he  knows  it's 
true — he'll  give  them  chapter  and  verse  for  it  all 
right." 

"  There's  something  truer  still  than  that,  Hiram — 
the  grace  of  God  can " 

"  Bah  !  "  broke  in  the  other  derisively,  "  don't  try 
your  preaching  on  with  me,  Steve.  What  do  you 
know  about  the  grace  of  God?  You  go  to  your 
preaching  and  I'll  go  to  my  ploughing  ;  but  don't  let 
either  of  us  talk  about  that  kind  of  thing — at  least 
not  to  each  other.  But  you'll  need  it  yet,  Steve, 
you'll  need  it — and  who  knows  but  you'll  get  it  too  ? 
Who  knows  ?  "  he  repeated  almost  musingly. 

Suddenly  he  fixed  his  eyes  again  on  Stephen's 
face. 


HIRAM   STIRS    The   POOL          43 

"  Steve,  you  know  I've  got  no  love  for  you,  don't 
you  ?  And  you  know  I've  got  good  cause  to  hate 
you,  don't  you  ?  "  pursued  the  man,  the  dark  shade  of 
anger  clouding  his  face  again. 

"  I  don't  acknowledge " 

"  All  right,  never  mind  about  acknowledging.  As 
long  as  you  have  your  memory,  I  can  afford  to  care 
nothing  for  your  acknowledgments.  But  now  I'm 
coming  to  the  point.  Do  you  know  what  my  worst 

wish  for  you  is,  Steve ?  It's  a  cruel,  savage 

wish — the  devil  couldn't  wish  you  worse.  Guess 
what  it  is." 

Stephen  gazed  wonderingly,  fearfully,  at  the  face 
that  peered  into  his  own,  and  his  tongue  seemed  to 
refuse  to  speak.  For  even  the  humblest  enemy  is 
mighty  when  the  Past  is  in  his  hand. 

"  You  would  never  guess,  Steve,  what  I'm  going  to 
wish  you.  You  wouldn't  think  I'm  religious  enough 
to  wish  you  this — but  I'm  more  religious  than  you 
think  for.  And  if  I  get  my  wish — which  I  think  I 
will — I'll  get  my  revenge  all  right ;  I  mean,  you  will 
suffer  enough  to  satisfy  all  the  enemies  you  ever 
had." 

"  Let  me  pass,"  broke  out  his  listener,  extending 
his  arm  as  if  to  brush  Hiram  aside. 

"All  right,  Steve,  you  may  pass — on  you  go. 
And  my  wish  for  you  is  this,  that  you'll  go  on  into  the 
ministry,  without  the  grace  of  God.  Understand, 
Wishart  ?  You're  to  go  on  into  the  ministry — with- 
out the  grace  of  God.  That's  my  wish — cruel 
enough,  I'll  admit,  but  that's  my  wish  for  you.  A 


44  THE    UNDERTOW 

preacher  without  his  papers — secret  papers,  you 
know.  Go  on,  Steve,  run  your  mill  by  hand — no 
steam,  no  water,  nothing  but  your  own  hands ;  and 
make  folks  believe  you've  got  a  different  power. 
That's  my  wish  for  you,  Wishart,  and  even  God  Al- 
mighty can't  disappoint  me  unless  He  does  a  heap  of 
surgery  on  you ;  and  either  one'll  suit  me  all  right. 
Good-morning  to  you.  Good-morning  to  you, 
Reverend  Stephen  Wishart,  minister  of  the  Gospel 
of  the  grace  of  God." 

Hiram  bowed  low,  raising  his  hat,  then  picked  up 
the  pail  he  had  been  carrying  and  went  on  his  way, 
the  sinister  eyes  flashing  as  he  went. 

Stephen  answered  not  a  word,  but  hurried  forward 
to  the  house.  He  encountered  his  mother  at  the  door. 

"  Guid-mornin',  laddie.  It's  a  brichtsome  day. 
Ye  rested  weel,  I  hope.  Come  ben  to  your  break- 
fast. I  was  juist  gaein'  to  ca"  ye.  The  parritch  is 
lifted  and  yir  faither's  waitin',"  said  the  faithful  woman, 
looking  proudly  on  the  son  whose  gifts  and  promise 
were  her  greatest  joy. 

"  Thank  you,  mother,  but  don't  wait  breakfast  for 
me.  I  slept  poorly  last  night — too  much  of  your 
good  cooking,  I'm  afraid,"  and  Stephen  commanded 
a  faint  smile  as  he  spoke,  "  so  I  think  I'll  see  if  I  can't 
rest  a  little — I'm  not  feeling  extra  well." 

"  Puir  laddie,"  responded  his  mother,  "  it's  ower 
hard  studyin'  wi'  the  books  that's  no'  guid  for  ye,  but 
tak  ye  a  wee  bit  rest  and  ye'll  mebbe  feel  mair  like 
yir  breakfast  after  that.  Let  doon  the  blinds  and 
ye'll  rest  the  better." 


HIRAM   STIRS    The    POOL          45 

Stephen  did  let  down  the  blinds,  and  on  the  softest 
of  pillows  he  laid  his  weary  head.  But  there  are 
blinds  invisible  which  we  cannot  draw  at  will,  and  the 
unshielded  soul  that  craves  them,  conscious  of  other 
larger  eyes  than  ours  that  search  it  through  and 
through,  looks  and  longs  in  vain  for  the  shelter  that 
is  denied.  Such  a  soul  was  Stephen  Wishart's,  vainly 
searching  for  its  cover  and  rinding  no  pillow  worthy 
of  its  weariness.  The  past,  with  its  every  turgid 
tide,  its  every  muddy  tributary,  surged  about  him 
where  he  lay ;  and  the  voice  of  Hiram  Barker  echoed 
in  his  soul  like  the  voice  of  doom.  And  now  he 
lives  over  again  the  hour  of  defeat  which  Hiram's 
words  recalled.  Deep  and  sincere  was  the  penitence 
he  felt,  earnest  and  true  his  desire  to  redeem  his  sin 
by  a  life  of  devoted  service ;  and  plaintive  indeed 
was  his  secret  cry  for  a  regenerated  heart  that  might 
justify  the  life-work  he  had  dared  to  choose. 

He  was  still  pondering  the  past,  now  sallying  into 
the  days  that  were  gone,  now  fluttering  fearfully  for- 
ward toward  their  darker  descendants  yet  to  come, 
when  a  sound  from  the  kitchen  below  attracted  his 
attention.  It  was  a  note  of  music,  roughly  but  ac- 
curately uttered  by  his  father's  voice,  evidently  in 
quest  of  a  tune.  Stephen  understood  at  once — they 
were  beginning  family  worship,  always  opened  with  a 
psalm.  He  had  often  found  it  wearisome  enough, 
but  it  seemed  strangely  interesting  now — and  wel- 
come too — for  it  had  the  subtle  charm  of  reality  about 
it,  like  his  mother's  substantial  fare,  compared  with 
the  confectioneries  of  nimbler  hands. 


46  THE   UNDERTOW 

He  partly  rose,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  and 
listening  intently.  Once  or  twice  his  father  cleared 
his  throat,  pursuing  the  note  again;  then  a  slight 
murmur  of  satisfaction  with  his  search  and  the  psalm 
began.  Up  into  his  room  floated  the  stately  words, 
his  father's  voice  clearly  in  the  lead,  followed  by  his 
mother's  quavering  tones,  Reuben  joining  with  a  rich 
and  mellow  bass  :  — 

"  Behold  Thou  in  the  inward  parts 

With  truth  delighted  art 
And  wisdom  Thou  shalt  make  me  know 

Within  the  hidden  part." 

Stephen's  soul  went  down  before  the  mighty  num- 
bers ;  his  spirit  seemed  caught  into  the  current  of  the 
noble  prayer  and  he  tried  to  join  the  singing.  But 
his  voice  was  choked  in  tears.  The  vision  of  the 
great  lives  beneath  him,  whose  shoe-latchets  he  knew 
himself  unworthy  to  unloose — their  simple  faith,  their 
unstained  purity,  their  loyalty  to  God — and  the 
mingling  vision  of  his  own  warring  heart,  his  treach- 
erous will,  his  tarnished  life,  lent  to  the  words  a  power 
and  to  the  prayer  a  beauty  that  melted  his  soul  within 
him. 

Still  listening,  he  could  catch  the  murmur  of  words, 
but  too  low  to  be  heard  distinctly — evidently  the 
reading  from  the  Book.  A  few  minutes  more,  and  a 
shuffling  of  chairs,  followed  by  deep  quietness,  be- 
tokened that  they  had  sought  the  Presence  whose 
reality  Stephen  knew  was  the  power  of  his  parents' 
lives.  Only  two  phrases  did  he  hear.  Once  he  caught 
the  words  :  «  Help  us  to  live  true  lives  before  Thee 


HIRAM   STIRS    The    POOL          47 

this  day  " — and  the  contrite  heart  coveted  the  answer 
for  its  own.  Again  he  heard :  "  Give  him  a  great 
secret  for  his  great  work,"  and  the  listening  son  knew 
well  for  whom  his  father  prayed. 

He  rose  from  the  bed,  his  whole  soul  bathed  in 
purpose.  Kneeling  low,  he  poured  out  his  heart  in 
penitence,  while  resolve  and  entreaty  mingled  in  pas- 
sionate petition. 

"  Oh,  God,  save  me  from  the  past,"  he  cried.  "  I 
was  young — and  I  was  caught  into  the  torrent  before 
I  knew  its  danger.  Oh,  God,  give  me  a  clean  heart 
and  make  me  hate  sin — make  me  hate  sin,  oh,  my 
Father,"  he  repeated,  "  and  let  me  love  Thy  will — 
and  Thy  work."  Then,  one  by  one,  he  sought  to 
bring  the  sins  of  his  youth  forward  for  forgiveness ; 
but  his  mind  threatened  to  linger  on  them  and  the 
stain  menaced  his  heart  anew.  He  forbore,  con- 
cluding with  a  repetition  of  his  former  cry,  struggling 
back  to  the  shore  like  one  whose  garments  are  wet 
with  the  torrent's  spray. 

Still  struggling,  he  walked  to  the  open  window  and 
looked  out.  The  morning  sun,  far  on  its  calm  jour- 
ney now,  was  shriving  all  it  touched  with  holy  light. 
The  tranquil  purity  of  all  around  him  seemed  to 
soothe  the  tumult  in  Stephen's  soul,  speaking  to  him 
with  its  silent  voice.  New  life  was  manifest  in  herb 
and  flower  and  leaf,  bud  and  blossom  faintly  heralding 
the  regeneration  of  the  year.  Recovery  and  whole- 
ness and  triumph  seemed  about  him  on  every  hand — 
and  the  instinct  of  life  seemed  to  throb  with  victory, 
numbness  and  decay  retreating  with  ever-hastening 


48  THE    UNDERrOW 

steps.  May  not  the  soul  have  its  spring-time  too  ? 
thought  Stephen  Wishart. 

Suddenly  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices — but  no- 
body was  visible. 

"  I  can't  wait,  Reuben,"  he  heard  a  familiar  voice 
say.  "  I  only  came  to  get  the  glass  pitcher  that 
mother  loaned  for  last  night — and  I  must  hurry  back. 
Father's  shearing  the  sheep  and  mother'll  be  needing 
me.  It's  churning  day." 

"  Never  mind  the  churning,  Bessie,"  Reuben 
answered.  "  Hiram's  going  to  the  post  and  I  told 
him  to  drop  in  and  give  your  mother  a  hand  at 
anything  she  was  at.  I  knew  your  father  was  at  the 
creek.  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Let  us  sit  here  by 
the  well." 

Stephen,  obedient  to  a  sudden  impulse  of  honour, 
stepped  noiselessly  back  and  sat  upon  the  bed.  He 
knew  their  words  were  not  for  him,  but  the  words 
followed  him — only  a  few  random  fugitives  did  he 
catch,  but  they  were  enough  to  provide  his  conscience 
with  a  hinge. 

"  Why  would  you  go  away,  Reuben  ?  Your 
father  and  mother  surely  need  you  here — and  lots  of 
folks  would  miss  you." 

"  You  know,  Bessie,  you  know  why  I  want  to  go 
away,"  answered  Reuben's  voice. 

Then  some  words  followed  which  were  too  low  for 
Stephen's  ears.  "  For  my  sake,"  Bessie  cried  in 
answer,  "  for  my  sake,  Reuben  !  Why  go  away  for 
me  ?  No,  I  didn't  say  I'd  miss  you — I  won't  say 
anything  about  that.  You  can  decide  about  that  your- 


HIRAM   STIRS    The    POOL          49 

self — I  guess  you  know.  But  what  would  your 
going  away  have  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

"  You  know  well  enough,  Bessie — why  should  you 
ask  me  to  tell  you  ?  You  know  I'm  only  a  rough 
uneducated  farmer,  nothing  but  a  clodhopper  and 
not  likely  to  be  anything  better — while  I  stay  here. 
And  I  can  see  you  aren't  satisfied.  Here  I  am  with 
no  prospects  but  a  farm — and  it  not  free  from  debt 
till  lately ;  and  no  money  amongst  us  except  that 
windfall  that  father  got  from  Scotland.  I  don't 
blame  you,  Bessie.  You  want  somebody  with  edu- 
cation, or  money,  or  both — somebody  with  fine  man- 
ners, who  has  seen  something  of  the  world,  some- 
body that  you  can  be  proud  of.  That's  the  kind  of 
man  you  want — or  ought  to  want." 

Bessie's  voice  trembled  as  she  answered  : — "  I 
want  something  more  than  that,  Reuben — every  girl 
wants  more  than  that." 

"  What  is  it,  Bessie  ?  tell  me  what  is  it  ?  "  urged 
Reuben. 

Bessie's  answer  was  low,  so  low  that  Stephen  could 
not  hear,  but  the  last  words  were  plain  enough : — "  A 
true  heart  that  will  never  change,  never,  never  at  all, 
but  get  truer  and  truer  the  longer  they  both  live — 
that's  what  every  girl  wants." 

"  I  know,  Bessie.  I  know  all  that — but  you  want 
something  more  besides.  Something  I  can  never 
get  or  give  you  here.  You  know  you  are  beautiful, 
and  you  are  meant  for  lovely  things,  and  high 
society,  and  educated  people,  even  if  you  do  live  on 
a  farm  like  myself.  You  are  meant  for  somebody 


5o  THE    UNDERTOW 

like  that — somebody  like  Stephen,"  he  concluded, 
and  his  voice  was  different,  faltering  as  he  spoke  the 
name. 

"  Stephen  wouldn't  think  of  me  " — the  girl's  voice 
was  trembling — "  we  used  to  be  such  friends — but 
I've  got  sense  enough  to  know  about  Stephen  now. 
You  remember  that  paper  he  sent  us  about  that  re- 
ception— and  the  description  of  all  the  fine  dresses 
and  things — you  remember  ?  " 

Reuben  did  remember,  for  his  soul  had  secretly 
exulted  over  it ;  but  he  noticed  the  look  of  longing 
pain  in  the  girl's  eyes  and  a  shadow  crept  across 
his  own. 

"  Steve's  too  noble  a  fellow  to  be  influenced  by 
such  things  as  those,"  he  replied.  "  Steve's  almost  a 
minister  now,  and  he  loves  souls  for  their  own  sakes  ; 
the  rich  and  the  poor'll  all  be  alike  to  him.  I  don't 
think  worldly  attractions,  society  things,  I  mean, 
have  any  charm  for  Stephen." 

The  girl  did  not  fail  to  note  the  shade  upon  his 
face  and  it  lent  music  to  his  generous  words,  the  love 
he  bore  his  brother  struggling  to  hold  its  own  against 
the  great  supplanter. 

Divine  authority  there  was,  and  Reuben  knew  it, 
for  the  desertion  that  forsakes  a  brother  to  cleave  to 
that  same  supplanter — but  Reuben  would  cleave  yet 
a  while  to  both. 

Stephen  was  the  younger,  and  the  more  delicate. 
A  violent  sickness  in  early  boyhood  had  well-nigh 
borne  him  off;  after  he  was  convalescent,  he  had 
been  much  in  Reuben's  care;  and  the  latter  had 


HIRAM  STIRS    The   POOL          51 

shielded  him  by  day,  and  had  wakened  all  through 
the  wintry  nights  to  assure  himself  that  the  little  in- 
valid was  covered  up  and  warm.  Thus  the  protection 
of  his  brother  had  become  the  habit  of  his  life  and 
almost  the  deepest  passion  of  his  heart. 

"  What  is  Stephen  going  to  do  now,  Reuben  ?  " 
Bessie  asked.  "  Has  he  got  a  call  to  a  kirk  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Bessie — he  hasn't  told  me.  But 
he  wants  to  study  in  Scotland  ;  I  know  he  asked 
father  for  the  money,"  answered  Stephen's  brother. 

Then  Reuben's  voice  dropped  lower  and  Stephen 
could  hear  but  little  of  what  he  said.  What 
he  did  hear,  however,  was  enough  to  let  him  know 
that  he  was  no  longer  the  subject  of  his  brother's 
pleading.  The  poor  hungry  heart  was  speaking  for 
itself  now.  He  was  speaking  louder  than  before. 

"  I  can  never  hope  to  be  clever  like  him,  but  happi- 
ness isn't  in  being  clever,  Bessie ;  it's  in  being  happy 
— and  that's  an  entirely  different  thing.  Won't  you 
bid  me  go,  Bessie?  And  won't  you  promise  to 
write  to  me,  and  cheer  me  on,  and  wait  for  me — and 
let  me  feel  all  through  the  fight  that  your  heart  is 
helping  me  to  try  and  be  worthy  of  you  ?  I'll  try 
so  hard — and  I  know  I  can  succeed." 

"  But  Reuben,  if  you  could  be  happy  anywhere — 
if  both  of  us  could  be  happy  anywhere,"  and  the 
blush  of  ardent  innocence  gave  beauty  to  the  words, 
"  there's  no  better  place  than  just  here  where  every- 
body else  seems  to  be  happy  too.  Everything  is 
pure  and  lovely  here — but  don't  ask  me,  Reuben — 
don't  urge  me  so.  I  admire  you  so,  Reuben — no- 


52 


UNDERTOW 


body  in  the  whole  world  admires  you  like  I  do.  I 
think  you  are  so  good  ;  everybody  does  —  and  father 
says  you  could  be  an  elder." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  an  elder,"  the  other  broke  in 
abruptly,  "  and  I  don't  want  to  be  admired  ;  I  don't 
care  whether  anybody  admires  me  or  not.  I  want  to 
be  —  oh,  Bessie,  Bessie  "  —  and  the  listener  above  them 
trembled  like  a  leaf  at  the  great  stillness  that  fol- 
lowed, broken  by  no  voice  of  words,  but  only  by  the 
old,  old  rhetoric  of  passion's  movement,  that  semi- 
savage,  semi-heavenly,  music  of  a  man's  tender  over- 
powering and  woman's  surrendering  resistance. 

"  Oh,  Reuben,  Reuben,"  he  heard  at  last,  "  you 
mustn't  —  we  mustn't  —  some  one's  calling  me,"  and 
in  a  moment  the  graceful  form  could  be  seen  hurry- 
ing across  the  sward.  But  Stephen  knew  from  their 
very  sound  that  those  lips  had  been  touched  by 
kindred  coals  of  flame  —  and  his  own  were  parched 
and  white.  He  watched  the  girl's  lithe  frame  as  it 
retreated  in  the  distance,  the  golden  hair  tossed  in 
the  morning  wind  ;  and  he  saw,  too,  or  thought  he 
saw,  the  heaving  bosom  and  the  burning  cheek  — 
but  all  were  beautiful,  marked  more  by  beauty  than 
by  strength,  he  knew. 

He  walked  across  the  room  and  threw  himself 
upon  the  bed;  in  a  moment  he  is  up  again  and 
pacing  the  floor. 

He  strides  to  the  window  again  and  looks  at  the 
morning's  majestic  purity,  unnoticed  now.  A  man's 
form  is  visible,  appearing  above  a  distant  hill.  He 
gazes  at  it  a  minute  as  it  plods  heavily  on,  and  sees 


HIRAM   STIRS    The    POOL          53 

it  to  be  Hiram,  returning  from  his  errand.  Then 
doors  of  ebony  fly  open  wide,  and  ghostly  memories, 
black-robed,  rush  in,  the  very  memories  he  had  fore- 
sworn forever,  upon  his  knees  surrendering  them  to 
the  destructive  custody  of  God.  He  bids  them  be- 
gone— back,  still  back  he  bids  them  go ;  and  all  are 
driven  forth  save  one,  one  only,  that  had  long  been 
the  favourite  of  his  heart.  It  lingers — and  soon  the 
door  is  open  wide  again,  and  all  the  banished  return 
rejoicing  to  the  room  that  hath  been  swept  and 
garnished — all  unresisted  now. 

Stephen  turns  from  the  window,  his  back  turned 
upon  the  light;  the  room  is  strangely  dark  after 
looking  at  the  meadows  and  the  sun;  but  not  un- 
pleasantly so  to  his  ardent  eyes.  A  robin  is  voicing 
its  pure  note  from  a  tree  beside  the  window  as  Stephen 
turns  away ;  but  he  hears  it  only  for  an  instant,  dis- 
missing the  sweet  suggestion. 


IV 
The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  The  NEW 

"  "•"  'VE  been  thinkin'  it  ower  to  mysel',  Stephen, 
and  I  talkit  to  yir  mither  aboot  it — an'  I  dinna 

JL   ken  weel  juist  what  to  dae." 

It  was  Robert  Wishart's  voice ;  and  he  was  seated 
again  in  the  familiar  kitchen  seat. 

Jean  was  over  at  the  Burnetts',  holding  high  con- 
ference upon  the  high  proceedings  of  the  social  gath- 
ering whose  story  has  been  already  told.  Reuben 
was  still  employed  with  the  varied  duties  of  the  byre, 
through  whose  open  doors  came  the  sound  of  many 
a  bovine  vesper  song. 

"  I  don't  know  either,"  answered  Stephen.  "  May 
I  ask  a  plain  question,  father  ?  Have  you  any  money 
except  what  they  sent  you  from  the  old  country  ? 
Don't  think  I'm  prying  into  your  affairs ;  but  when 
I  spoke  to  you  about  sending  me  abroad  to  study,  I 
thought  perhaps  you  had  a  little  laid  by  in  all  these 
years."  Stephen's  rather  embarrassed  face  was  turned 
towards  the  door  as  he  asked  the  question,  fearing 
interruption. 

"  Ye're  no'  interfering  Stephen — no,  there's  nae- 
body  there ;  Reuben's  attendin'  to  the  cattle  for  the 
nicht.  Ye're  no'  interferin',  as  I  said.  We'll  no' 
begin  now  to  hae  ony  secrets  among  us.  But  about 
the  money — I  hae  nae  mair,  forbye  a  pickle  that  I'll 
gie  to  Hiram  when  the  month  comes  round.  There's 

54 


The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  The  NEW         55 

no'  been  muckle  money  in  farmin'  these  late  years. 
I  mind  the  time  o'  the  war  in  Russia — wheat  was  gey 
high  then — twa  dollars  a  bushel  for  months  on  end, 
and  glad  to  get  it,  tae.  It's  but  three-quarters  o'  a 
dollar  now.  But  I'm  no'  complainin' — war's  a  wae- 
some  thing  to  mak  money  oot  o'." 

"  Didn't  you  lend  some  money  to  Archie  Gourlay, 
father  ?  "  Stephen  asked  after  a  short  pause,  his  mind 
still  fixed  on  Edinburgh  and  all  possible  assets 
thereto  assisting. 

"  Aye,  I  loaned  him  a  wee  pickle — puir  Airchie, 
he  had  aye  the  manners  o'  a  Duke  when  he  was 
wantin'  siller.  I  mind  how  he  held  the  gate  open 
when  I  started  ben  the  hoose  to  get  it  for  him — but 
'twas  sair  different  when  I  wantit  it  back.  I  had  to 
open  a'  the  gates  mysel',"  and  Robert  Wishart  in- 
dulged himself  in  a  low  gurgle  of  laughter.  "  He 
was  ceevil  eneuch  for  a'  that ;  I  mind  he  told  me  he 
wadna  ask  the  note  afore  he  paid  the  money  on't," 
and  the  kindly  creditor  laughed  again. 

"  Did  he  ever  pay  you  ?  "  Stephen  asked. 

"  Na,  he  never  did — and  he  died  a  twalmonth  syne, 
as  ye  ken.  And  a  fortnicht  later  his  horse  was  killed 
wi'  lichtnin' — and  the  stirkie  was  droon'd — and  his 
puir  widow  bocht  a  lichtnin'  rod  frae  a  scoun'rel  that 
cam'  round — and  that's  waur  nor  buyin'  a  farm  itsel'. 
Sae  I  cudna  be  ower  hard ;  and  I  never  pressed  her 
mair.  The  body  seems  gratefu',  nae  doot ;  says  she 
aye  gies  me  her  vote  for  an  elder.  And  I  aye  cry 
back  it's  a  sair  pity  she  canna  gie  me  the  fitness, 
tae,"  and  the  old  farmer  smiled,  ending  with  a  sigh. 


56  'THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Where  is  the  note  ?  "  Stephen  ventured. 

His  father  paused  a  moment ;  then  nodding  his 
head  forward  he  replied : — "  It's  in  there." 

"  In  there  !  Where  ?  "  said  Stephen, "  in  the  Bible 
do  you  mean  ?  "  for  the  sacred  volume  was  often  the 
receptacle  of  cherished  manuscripts  ;  and  within  its 
hallowed  pages  was  many  a  Scotchman  wont  to  read 
his  title  clear. 

"  Na,  it's  no'  in  the  Buik.  I  never  mix  thae  things 
thegither.  Though  ma  faither  did — he  aye  keepit 
his  marriage  lines  at  the  thirteenth  o'  First  Corin- 
thians, and  his  mither's  funeral  card  at  the  four- 
teenth o'  St.  John.  Guid  bits,  tae,  baith  o'  them," 
he  added,  his  mind  evidently  more  engrossed  with 
these  tender  thoughts  than  with  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  But  where  did  you  say  the  Gourlay  note  was  ?  " 
Stephen  renewed,  for  he  was  in  no  antiquarian  mood 
just  then. 

"  Oh,  the  note,"  said  his  father,  reclaiming  his 
thoughts  with  a  start, "  it's  in  there  where  I  tell't  ye." 

"  In  where  ?  "  pursued  the  son,  "  I  don't  see  any- 
where where  it  can  be ;  there's  nothing  there  but  the 
wall." 

"  It's  i'  the  fire,"  the  head  of  the  house  gravely 
averred.  "  It  oucht  to  be  there,  onyway.  That's 
where  I  saw  it  last — and  it's  the  place  for  a'  such 
things  wi'  neebours,  to  my  way  o'  thinkin' — I'll  never 
hae  anither." 

Stephen  gazed  intently  into  the  fire,  his  mental  at- 
titude prompting  the  stare. 

"  Ye    canna    see't,"   the    old   man   interposed,  a 


The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  The  NEW        57 

solemn  smile  playing  about  his  lips.  "  It's  i'  the 
fire,  nae  doot,  but  its  indiveeduality  is  gone,  ye  ken,"' 
he  concluded,  undertaking  a  word  as  large  as  the 
generous  action  which  had  necessitated  it ;  "  but  the 
fire's  seemed  to  me  to  burn  brichter  ever  since,"  he 
added,  "  and  it'll  no'  dae  the  widow's  fire  ony  harm 
forbye." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  Stephen  mused  abstractedly. 

"  Aye,"  responded  the  other,  "  that's  what  I  think 
mysel'."  Then  silence,  that  greatest  arbitrator,  took 
the  ill  matched  argument  into  her  keeping,  judgment 
to  be  reserved. 

Robert  Wishart  was  the  first  to  renew  the  conver- 
sation : — "  Mebbe  we'd  better  be  takin'  up  that  mait- 
ter  o'  business  again — ways  and  means  hae  their  ain 
place,  as  my  faither  used  to  say.  Aboot  yir  gaein'  to 
the  auld  country,  Stephen — I  dinna  ken  weel  juist 
what  ye  oucht  to  dae,  as  I  was  sayin'.  I've  gied  ye 
a  guid  schulin',  and  pit  ye  through  for  the  ministry  ; 
and  I  was  hopin',  mebbe,  that  ye'd  sune  be  daein' 
for  yirsel'.  It's  ta'en  a  heap  o'  siller — not  that  I'm 
grudgin'  it,  Stephen,  far  frae  that — but  yir  mither's 
needin'  a  new  gown,  and  I'd  like  Reuben  to  hae  a 
bit  thing  or  twa — a  watch  mebbe ;  and  we're  needin' 
a  new  carriage ;  and  I  was  thinkin'  o'  takin'  yir 
mither  for  a  wee  bit  holiday.  She's  far  frae  weel,  as 
ye  ken  yirsel'.  Her  heart's  ailin',  the  doctor  says, 
and  she  maun  hae  rest,  he  says  tae."  Brooding 
seriousness  sat  on  Robert  Wishart's  brow. 

Stephen's  face  paled,  and  he  poked  the  fire  medi- 
tatively. "  I  understand,  father,  and  I  don't  want  to 


58  THE    UNDERTOW 

be  selfish — I  hope  I'm  not  selfish,"  he  continued 
gravely,  his  gaze  averted  from  his  father's,  so  stead- 
fastly set  upon  him.  "  You've  certainly  been  kind  to 
me — but  it  does  seem  too  bad  not  to  give  my  educa- 
tion the  finishing  touch,  now  that  we've  gone  so  far. 
You  see,  father,  this  country  is  very  new — and  very 
raw — so  far  as  its  culture  is  concerned,  at  least,  espe- 
cially in  theology ;  one  really  doesn't  get  the  latest 
thought  in  theology  this  side  of  Germany.  But  I 
don't  think  of  Germany.  I  can  learn  to  read  the 
German  books — and  I  will.  But  in  Edinburgh  they 
have  some  grand  theologians,  thoroughly  modern, 
up  to  date,  men,  who  are  familiar  with  the  new  the- 
ology, and  that  is  what  a  fellow  needs  for  the  min- 
istry in  these  days.  You  have  to  keep  abreast  of  the 
times  if  you  would  succeed." 

Stephen  would  have  continued,  but  his  father 
turned  and  looked  at  him,  wonder  in  his  face. 

"  What's  that  yir  say  in',  Stephen  ?  What's  that 
yir  sayin'  ?  '  the  latest  thocht ' — whaur  wad  a  min- 
ister o'  the  gospel  get  the  latest  thocht  if  it  isna  frae 
Almichty  God?  And  I'm  thinkin'  He  micht  be 
found  this  side  o'  Germany,  or  Edinburgh  either,  for 
that  maitter.  '  A  new  theology  !  a  new  theology  ! ' 
that  is  summat  new,  I'll  grant  ye.  Some  o'  thae  new 
professors'll  be  wantin'  a  new  sun  i'  the  heavens  soon  ; 
and  the  yin's  as  reasonable  as  the  ither. 

"  Whatever  div  ye  mean,  my  laddie  ?  Tell  me,  noo, 
wad  ye  like  a  new  mither  ?  Or  a  new  way  o' 
thinkin'  aboot  a  mither's  love?  Wad  ye,  laddie, 
wad  ye,  noo  ?  Dinna  shake  yir  heid  like  that — 


The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  The  NEW         59 

they're  the  same ;  and  ye  maun  learn  aboot  them  the 
same  way — by  the  heart,  ye  ken. 

"  Ye  canna  learn  aboot  the  flowers  that  blaw  beside 
the  burn,  oot  o'  a  bulk.  Ye  canna,  ye  maun  learn 
them  wi'  yir  heart  tae.  An  auld  country  and  a  new 
theology  !  God  forbid  !  "  and  the  student's  father 
caressed  the  Book  that  lay  beside  him,  his  cheek 
glowing  with  an  unwonted  colour,  and  his  eyes  some- 
what dim  as  they  rested  on  the  precious  volume  ;  for 
his  father  before  him  had  pillowed  there  his  weary 
heart  when  the  evening  shadows  fell. 

"  But  father,  listen  to  me  a  moment,"  cried  his  son, 
almost  overborne  as  he  was  by  the  elder's  vehemence ; 
he  was  dimly  conscious  of  the  great  power  that  so 
often  reposes  in  great  hearts  like  these,  breaking  at 
long  intervals  into  geyser  speech.  "  Listen  to  me  a 
moment,"  he  said  again  ;  and  his  father  essayed  to  do 
so,  settling  himself  resolutely  within  his  chair. 

"  It's  like  this,"  Stephen  went  on,  "  it's  like  this — 
new  theories  come  with  new  light ;  and  it's  our  duty 
to  welcome  truth,  come  from  what  quarter  it  may. 
Our  views  of  many  things  change  with  the  years, 
even  though  they  may  be  challenged.  You  remem- 
ber Copernicus  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  suddenly.  "  Remember 
wha  ?  " 

"  Copernicus,"  repeated  Stephen,  "  Copernicus  and 
the  sun,  you  know." 

"  I  canna  mind  on  him,"  said  the  father,  ransack- 
ing his  memory  in  vain — "  but  I'm  no'  sae  guid  at 
mindin'  names  as  I  used  to  be.  And  of  course  I 


60  THE    UNDERTOW 

wadna  ken  the  son ;  a  man  at  my  age  isna  sae  ready 
at  takin'  up  wi'  the  young  folk.  What  like  a  man 
was  he  ?  Did  they  gang  till  oor  kirk  ?  " 

"  Oh,  father,  you  misunderstand  me — I'm  speaking 
of  Copernicus,  a  famous  name  in  science — one  of  the 
ancients " 

"  Oh,"  broke  in  the  other,  "  it's  oot  o'  the  Bible  ye 
mean?  It'll  be  Capernaum  ye' re  thinkin'  o'.  I  ken 
Capernaum  fine — was  readin'  aboot  it  this  vera 
mornin'.  That's  the  place  as  had  a  bonny  chance  wi' 
the  Maister's  michty  works — but  they  didna  tak  them 
to  their  souls ;  they  didna  hae  '  the  latest  thocht '  or 
mebbe  they  got  it  when  it  was  too  late ; "  and  the 
venerable  disputant  smiled  genially  upon  his  son,  his 
lifted  eyebrows  betokening  the  conviction  that  he  had 
fairly  scored. 

"  No,  father,  of  course  I  don't  mean  Capernaum," 
said  Stephen,  a  shade  of  irritation  mingling  with  his 
smile — "  I'm  speaking  of  a  man,  not  of  a  place — a 
man  who  had  new  views  about  the  sun ;  and  the  peo- 
ple ridiculed  his  ideas.  Well " 

"  Div  ye  mean  the  Son  o'  God  ?  "  his  father  inter- 
rupted earnestly,  evidently  glad  that  they  were  com- 
ing to  close  range  at  last. 

"  No,  certainty  not,  certainly  not.  I'm  talking 
about  the  sun  in  the  heavens — he  was  an  astrono- 
mer." 

"  Then  he  has  naeth.n'  to  dae  wi'  the  case,"  the  old 
man  retorted  triumphantly — "  it's  foreign  till  the  ar- 
gyment  a'  thegither.  What  has  astronomy  to  dae 
wi'  a  minister  that  has  eternal  life  to  preach  ? 


The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  The  NEW        61 

What's  yon  vanished  sun,  black  oot  half  the  time,  com- 
pared wi'  the  Sun  o'  Righteousness?  It's  naethin', 
simply  naethin'.  I  dinna  see  as  yon  Capernaum 
man  has  ony  bearin'  on  theology  at  a'." 

"  Oh,  I'm  only  using  that  as  an  illustration,  father. 
I'm  only  speaking  of  the  unjust  suspicion  with  which 
men  are  regarded  when  they  discover  new  truths — 
path-finders  you  might  call  them,  to  change  the 
figure." 

"  Aye,  ye'd  better  change  yir  figure,"  and  a  note  of 
scorn  was  in  his  father's  voice ;  "  ye'd  better  change  it 
again — it'll  stand  it.  That  path-findin',  as  ye  ca'  it, 
may  do  weel  eneuch  for  maitters  o'  the  intellect ;  but 
I'm  tellin'  ye  there's  nae  path-finder  for  the  guilty 
soul  but  yin — an'  He's  the  Shepherd  o'  the  soul. 
We've  got  to  tak  the  bairns'  place,  and  we've  got  to 
hae  the  bairns'  trustfu'  heart,  or  there's  nae  new 
path,  I'm  tellin'  ye.  Dauvit  found  the  path  fine,  and 
sae  did  Peter,  and  sae  did  the  prodigal  son — when 
they  lookit  for  it  wi'  a  broken  heart.  There's  nae 
eye  sees  sae  far  as  the  eye  that's  greetin',"  and  the 
old  Scotchman  sat  erect  in  his  chair  as  he  spoke,  like 
one  who  felt  he  was  set  for  the  defense  of  the  gospel. 

"  I  don't  mean  those  personal  matters,  father — not 
at  all — I  mean  opinions  about  truths,  doctrines,  and 
matters  of  that  kind.  For  instance  these  men  have 
given  us  new  theories  of  the  creation,  and  of  author- 
ship— the  book  of  Isaiah,  for  instance — and  a  more 
modern  interpretation  of  the  Atonement.  It's 
only " 

But  now  Robert  Wishart  was  on  his  feet,  for  vague 


62  THE    UNDERTOW 

rumours  of  this  very  feature  of  the  new  theology  had 
already  reached  him ;  "  Did  I  understand  ye  richt  ? 
« the  Atonement ;  the  Atonement,'  Stephen  !  Has  it 
gone  sae  far  ben  as  that?  Wad  they  fumble  wi'  the 
heart  o'  God  Himsel'  ?  Wad  they  play  hide  and  seek 
i'  the  garden  o'  Gethsemane  ?  My  God,  laddie,  keep 
yir  hands  aff  the  Cross ;  it's  a'  I  hae;  and  I'm  anauld 
man,  near  the  grave  and  the  Judgment  Seat, — and  a' 
the  world  has  naethin'  left  forbye  the  Cross.  Oh, 
Stephen  !  My  son,  my  son,  Stephen  ! " 

The  quivering  voice  is  broken  now  and  hot  tears 
are  coursing  down  the  simple  believer's  cheeks.  His 
strong  frame  shakes  with  the  emotion  of  his  heart,  for 
he  felt  as  if  his  own  son  had  snatched  at  the  only 
pillow  his  weary  head  could  know.  He  walked  a 
minute  about  the  room,  while  his  gaze  still  fondly 
turned,  resting  on  the  Book  that  had  lain  beside  him, 
then  passing  in  melting  tenderness  to  rest  upon  the 
bowed  head  his  hand  had  so  often  touched  in  blessing. 

He  stopped  before  a  grandfather  clock,  stately  and 
sympathetic  as  only  its  kind  can  be,  holding  its 
historic  place  against  the  whitened  wall.  His  father's 
father  had  been  its  first  possessor,  and  it  had  borne 
them  both  out  to  sea,  marking  off  the  years  as  they 
had  passed,  well  pleased  with  the  simple  ways  and 
simpler  faith  that  had  served  them  to  the  end.  Per- 
haps his  fond  look  into  its  face  recalled  with  intenser 
vividness  the  undisturbed  pavilion  of  those  peaceful 
days  whose  tranquillity  was  nothing  more  or  less  than 
rest  in  God. 

He  put  forth  his  hand  to  the  substantial  key  and 


The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  The  NEW        63 

began  to  slowly  wind  it.  The  familiar  sound  seemed 
to  compose  him ;  he  closed  the  tall  door  softly,  al- 
most caressingly,  while  his  faithful  friend,  its  voice 
subdued  in  consequence,  pressed  cheerfully  on  its  un- 
tiring way.  Then  he  came  and  stood  at  the  back  of 
Stephen's  chair,  his  hand  laid  gently  on  his  son's 
partly  bended  head.  Through  the  father's  mind 
there  passed  the  swift  thought  that  here  the  hands  of 
ordaining  grace  would  soon  be  laid.  An  exultant 
sense  of  a  father's  priestly  place  possessed  his  heart 
and  his  hand  rested  more  firmly  than  before. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  my  son,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I 
canna  help  thinkin'  o'  yir  grandfaither  the  nicht. 
He  died  in  yonner  chair,  when  his  day's  hard  work 
was  done.  And  his  latest  thocht  was  this,  Stephen 
— his  latest  thocht  was  this — that  he  was  the  chief  o' 
sinners.  Na,  na,  I'm  wrang — he  had  a  later  thocht 
than  that — it  was  this,  that  the  chief  o'  sinners  had  a 
Saviour — and  I'm  dootin'  he's  had  nae  later  thocht 
than  that,  for  a'  he's  where  the  Licht  is  clearer.  Oh, 
Stephen,  will  ye  no'  come  back  ?  Come  back,  my 
laddie,  to  yir  faither's  heart." 


In  The  FURNACE  TWICE 

STEPHEN  passed  out  the  farmhouse  door 
through  the  creaking  gate,  and  turned  the 
corner  of  the  barn  towards  the  familiar  copse 
whose  shadowy  outline  was  discernible  through  the 
deepening  dark. 

Soon  he  reached  the  outer  edge  of  the  little  fringe 
of  wood,  and  a  silvery  disc  was  visible  on  the  horizon. 
The  moon  was  rising,  and  Stephen  hailed  the  omen. 
All  things  make  for  light,  he  thought,  to  the  heart 
that  truly  seeks  it. 

This  reverie  was  interrupted  before  it  had  well 
begun,  by  a  sound  of  distant  barking.  Soon  the 
youth  heard  a  human  voice  mingling  with  the  dog's, 
evidently  chiding  it,  or  pretending  to  chide  it. 
Stephen  took  his  seat  upon  a  fallen  tree.  Soon  a 
merry  voice  was  heard  :  — 

"  Don't  make  such  a  noise,  Tonko ;  look,  the 
moon's  peeping  out  to  see  what's  the  matter — and 
you'll  waken  all  the  little  birdies  in  their  nests." 
Then  followed  another  peal  of  canine  repartee. 

"  I'll  never  bring  you  out  again  at  night,  you 
naughty  dog — all  good  doggies  should  be  in  bed  by 
now." 

Often  is  it  said,  and  ever  justly,  that  a  voice  owes 
64 


In    The    FURNACE    TWICE         65 

much  to  words — that  it  is  but  their  poor  dependent. 
But  mere  truly  may  it  be  said  that  words  are  the 
debtors  unto  voice,  which  is  life-giver  to  them  all. 
What  joy  there  is  in  trifling  speeches  if  they  but 
employ  those  lips  that  thrill  us  !  Which  Stephen 
Wishart  proved  that  night  beneath  the  timid  moon  ; 
for  this  bantering  speech  was  from  the  dewy  lips  of 
Bessie  Burnett,  and  no  rounded  period  from  Chry- 
sostom's  golden  mouth  could  so  have  stirred  his  soul. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  in  impulsive  movement. 
Whereupon  the  maiden  stood  trembling  in  the  path, 
while  the  unsympathetic  Tonko  bloomed  into  brist- 
ling vehemence,  low  growls  signifying  that  he  had 
good  cause  for  the  outburst. 

"  All  right,  Tonko — that's  a  good  dog.  Don't 
you  know  me,  Bessie  ?  You  know  who  it  is." 

With  a  reassuring  word,  the  girl  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  dog,  whose  armour  instantly  disappeared. 
Bessie  stepped  forward  and  Stephen  was  already  at 
her  side,  his  face  more  eager  than  her  own. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Bessie  ?  It  must  be  eight 
o'clock  or  after,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  you  frightened  me  so,"  Bessie  an- 
swered. "  I  couldn't  imagine  who  it  was.  I  took  over 
some  currant  jelly  to  the  Gourlays' — Mrs.  Gourlay's 
sick.  I  saw  the  light  in  your  house  at  home  and  I 
supposed  you  were  there  with  your  folks.  Where 
were  you  going  ?  " 

"  Nowhere,"  rejoined  Stephen,  "  I  was  only  out  for 
a  little  walk.  Let's  sit  down  a  minute,  Bessie ;  it's 
such  a  lovely  night.  It's  the  first  real  warm  night 


66  THE    UNDERTOW 

we've  had.  And  then  you  will  let  me  walk  home 
with  you  after." 

"  They'll  be  looking  for  me  home — and  I'm  afraid 
there's  dew,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  no,  there's  none  to  speak  of;  and  they'll 
think  you  are  just  lingering  a  little  at  the  Gourlays'. 
Come,  Bessie,  I  have  hardly  seen  anything  of  you 
since  I  came  home — and  I'm  going  away  again  very 
soon." 

"  Going  away  !  "  exclaimed  Bessie,  surrendering 
with  the  words,  and  letting  Stephen  bear  her  on : 
"  going  away  !  What  are  you  going  for  ?  Where 
are  you  going  ?  I  thought  you  were  going  to  make 
us  a  long  visit,  now  that  your  college  work  is  done." 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  "  I'm  going  very  soon — 
next  week,  perhaps.  And  it  may  be  I'll  go  tar 
away — away  across  the  ocean." 

"  Will  you  be  gone  long,  Stephen  ?  "  she  asked, 
the  slightest  throb  noticeable  in  her  voice. 

"  I  don't  know — but  it's  likely  I  will — perhaps  a 
year.  But  even  a  year  soon  goes  by." 

"  Sometimes  it  does,"  Bessie  said,  very  femininely. 

"  I  know,"  Stephen  went  on,  "  that  I  shall  often 
think  of  the  old  place  and  the  old  friends — and  I  hope 
they  will  sometimes  think  of  me." 

Bessie  stirred  in  her  seat,  the  fire  kindling  in  her 
bosom.  She  thought  of  Reuben,  brave,  honest,  faith- 
ful Reuben,  and  the  flame  flickered  lower  for  a  mo- 
ment. But  it  was  only  for  a  moment ;  Stephen's 
hand  moved  carelessly,  resting  on  her  own.  Tonko's 
head  was  on  Bessie's  knee,  restlessly  thrusting  about, 


In    The    FURNACE    TWICE         67 

the  devoted  creature  looking  up  at  quick  intervals  to 
his  mistress's  face,  impatient  of  the  strange  delay. 

"  Oh,  Bessie,"  Stephen  said  softly,  "  Bessie,  come 
closer  to  me." 

"  Don't,  Stephen,  don't,"  Bessie's  trembling  voice 
made  answer,  "  don't  make  it  harder  for  me,  Stephen. 
I  can't — I  must  not." 

"  I  can't  say  all  I  would,  Bessie — the  time  will 
come — but  you  know,  you  know ;  and,  before  I  go 
away " 

"  Stephen,  Stephen  Wishart,  I'm  promised,  I'm 
nearly  promised  to  another,  and  you  are  altogether 
promised — to  God — and  you  ought  to  help  me.  You 
can't  tell  me  what  you  mean ;  and  I  shouldn't  hear  it 
if  you  could — and  yet — oh,  Stephen." 

Her  companion  was  now  upon  his  feet,  and  a  no- 
bler light  glowed  upon  his  face.  "  You're  right,  Bes- 
sie," he  exclaimed,  his  voice  ringing  with  its  purpose. 
"  Your  love  belongs  to  Rube,  and  I'm  not  worthy  to 
unloose  his  shoe-latchet.  Forgive  me,  forgive  me, 
Bessie ;  this  is  a  kind  of  madness  on  my  part — I'm 
going  home,  I'm  going  back,  and  I  won't  see  you  any 
more,  Bessie.  Only  I  want  you  to  pray  for  me,  for 
I  really  want  to  conquer,  Bessie — I  really  do.  And  I 
shall  always  wish  the  very  best  for  you  and  Rube, 
dear  old  faithful  Rube.  I'm  going  home,"  and  with- 
out further  word  or  token  of  farewell,  he  turned  from 
the  wondering  girl  and  started  toward  his  father's 
house. 

"  Steve,"  she  called  gently,"  wait  one  minute,  Steve." 
But  he  seemed  not  to  hear,  quickening  his  pace  and 


68  THE    UNDERTOW 

pressing  on,  his  heart  rejoicing  in  the  battle,  but  won- 
dering the  while  at  the  strange  fever  that  so  easily 
possessed  it ;  for  he  knew,  knew  well,  the  disordered 
nature  of  the  impulse  that  had  so  well-nigh  mastered 
him,  and  the  thought  of  it  clothed  him  with  humilia- 
tion. Again  and  again  he  cursed  this  dark  current 
of  his  soul,  again  and  again  beseeching  the  healing 
stream. 

Thus  employed,  he  has  soon  outdone  the  distance 
that  separated  him  from  the  ever  brightening  light  in 
the  window  beyond.  The  door  opened  before 
Stephen  reached  it,  for  his  footsteps  had  been  heard. 
In  the  streaming  light  stood  Reuben. 

"  Is  that  you,  Stephen  ?  I've  been  often  to  the 
door  looking  for  you.  Where  have  you  been  ?  We 
were  wondering  what  could  have  happened  you." 

"  I've  been  having  a  little  walk,"  his  brother  an- 
swered. "  I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late.  What  are 
you  doing,  father  ?  "  he  asked  as  he  entered. 

"  I'm  dae'in'  what  I  haena  had  to  dae  for  mony  a 
year,"  the  old  man  responded ;  "  I  haena  had  to  med- 
dle wi't  since  yir  grandfaither  died.  All  that  it  needed 
yir  mither  could  dae  easy  eneuch.  It's  no'  troubled 
wi'  the  feckless  ways  o'  the  clocks  they're  makin' 
nowadays." 

His  father  was  standing  by  the  trusty  timepiece, 
taller  somewhat  than  himself,  a  bulky  screw-driver  in 
one  hand  and  a  candle  in  the  other.  This  luminary 
was  never  called  into  service,  save  for  this  self-same 
duty,  or  to  display  to  admiring  visitors  what  its  proud 
owner  called  the  "  innerts  "  of  the  faithful  horologe. 


In    'The    FURNACE    TWICE         69 

"  Yir  mither  kens  mair  aboot  it  as  I  dae  mysel'," 
Robert  Wishart  said,  recalling  his  tongue  from  afar 
to  utter  the  tribute ;  for  he  was  at  a  critical  point  just 
now ;  and  at  every  crisis  this  lingual  banner  was  wont 
to  be  displayed. 

"  Where  is  mother,  then  ?  "  Stephen  asked,  looking 
around  the  room. 

"  She's  no'  sae  weel — and  she  gaed  to  her  bed,"  ex- 
plained her  husband.  "  She'd  sune  set  it  richt  if  she 
wasna  ailin'  hersel'." 

A  voice  was  heard  from  the  adjoining  room,  "  I'm 
no'  ailin' — no'  sae  bad  as  that.  Gie't  ile,  faither; 
that's  what  it's  needin'.  And  Stephen,  get  ye  a  ban- 
nock for  yirsel'  frae  the  pantry  shelf — and  a  jug  o' 
milk.  I  put  them  by  for  ye.  Ye  maun  be  hungry, 
laddie." 

"  Thank  you,  mother,"  answered  her  son ;  "  you 
may  be  sure  I'll  find  them.  It  was  just  like  your 
thoughtfulness.  You'll  be  better  in  the  morning, 
won't  you,  mother  ?  " 

"  Aye,  Stephen,  I'll  be  a'  richt  the  morn.  Ye'll 
find  anither  quilt  at  the  foot  o'  yir  bed.  The  nichts 
is  cold,  ye  ken." 

He  thanked  her  again,  his  eyes  intent  upon  his 
father,  the  muffled  thump  of  an  oil  can,  prompted  at 
the  base  by  a  vigorous  thumb,  betokening  the  old 
man's  conjugal  obedience. 

Robert  Wishart  emerged  presently  from  the  oaken 
case. 

"  I've  gied  her  ile — eneuch  for  the  Sabbath-schule 
at  Christmas,"  he  said,  "  but  she  doesna  answer. 


70  THE    UNDERTOW 

Mebbe  it'll  no'  tak  effect  till  the  morn,"  and  he  turned, 
well  pleased  with  his  playfulness. 

"  Weel,  weel,"  he  added  abruptly,  "  we'll  no' 
bother  wi'  her  mair  the  nicht.  We'll  gang  to  oor 
rest  and  fit  oorsels  for  the  Creator's  will  the  morn. 
The  nicht'll  gang,  if  the  clock  willna'  " — and  the  pious 
philosopher  pushed  his  armchair  close  to  the  fire's 
cheerful  blaze. 

This  was  the  familiar  signal,  immediately  obeyed 
by  Reuben  and  Stephen,  who  drew  their  chairs  nearer 
to  their  father's,  settling  themselves  for  the  solemnities 
that  no  hurry  was  ever  permitted  to  curtail  nor  duty 
to  supplant. 

Carefully  was  the  psalm  selected.  With  mature 
deliberation,  as  though  this  were  the  rarest  ceremony, 
Robert  Wishart  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  book, 
pausing  here  and  there  to  adjust  a  leaf  that  long 
usage  had  disengaged.  There  were  many  claims 
for  his  favour,  and  some  were  with  difficulty  set 
aside. 

Stephen  was  curiously  interested  in  the  process. 
His  nature  had  inherited  the  tinge  of  superstition 
that  so  strongly  marks  the  race  from  which  he  sprung  ; 
and  he  had  a  sort  of  sub-conscious  feeling  that  his 
father  was  wont  to  choose  the  psalm  under  higher 
guidance  than  his  own. 

" '  What  time  my  heart  is  overwhelmed/  that's  a 
grand  yin — we'll  sing  that  the  morn  if  we're  spared," 
he  said  in  an  undertone,"  we'll  sing  this  yin  the  nicht, 
the  twenty-fourth." 

Slowly  arose  the  stately  words,  according  well  with 


In    The   FURNACE    TWICE         71 

the  strong  voice  and  earnest  soul  of  the  man  who 
poured  them  forth : 

"  Who  is  the  man  that  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  God 
Or  who  within  His  holy  place  shall  have  a  firm  abode  ?  " 

When  the  first  verse  was  finished,  he  turned  to 
Stephen : 

"  What  way  are  ye  no'  singin',  Stephen  ?  They're 
michty  words ;  and  they're  weel  fittin'  for  a  minister. 
Did  they  no'  sing  it  often  at  the  college  ?  " 

Stephen  made  some  inarticulate  reply,  lifting  his 
book  from  his  knee  and  holding  it  intently  before 
him.  But  his  lips  were  numb  and  dry,  the  outward 
emblem  of  an  inward  drought. 

Before  his  father  could  push  out  again  into  the 
swelling  current,  his  son  interrupted  him : 

"  This  tune  is  so  difficult,  father.  Let  us  sing  some- 
thing easier.  I'm  fond  of  the  hymns — and  they  sing 
them  nearly  altogether  at  the  college.  '  Whiter  than 
snow,'  that's  always  suitable,"  he  suggested. 

But  the  old  man  readjusted  his  glasses  relentlessly, 
his  eyes  still  upon  his  book. 

"  Na,  Stephen,  na.  Gin  I  start  a  hymn,  I'll  follow 
it  to  the  end ;  but  I'll  no'  lay  by  a  psalm  for  nae- 
body.  Sing  the  second  verse,"  wherewith  he  cleared 
his  throat  sonorously,  like  some  vessel's  horn  that 
warns  all  intruders  from  the  track,  repaired  the  key- 
note thus  disturbed,  and  launched  again  into  the 
stream. 

"  Whose  hands  are  clean,  whose  heart  is  pure,  and  unto  vanity 
Who  hath  not  lifted  up  his  soul,  nor  sworn  deceitfully." 


72  THE    UNDERTOW 

The  psalm  concluded,  Robert  Wishart  took  up  the 
big  ha'  Bible  from  the  chair  beside  him  and  selected 
a  portion  from  the  Eternal  Word  with  even  more 
mature  deliberation  than  before. 

"  We'll  read  the  sixty-eighth  psalm,"  he  said  at 
last ;  "  'twas  grand  to  the  Covenanters — and  it's  a 
grand  yin  yet.  '  Let  God  arise,  let  His  enemies  be 
scattered,' "  he  began.  But  again  an  interruption 
stopped  him.  It  was  Jean  this  time. 

"  Faither,  that's  a  grand  bit,  nae  doot,  but  I'm 
wantin"  anither  piece  the  nicht.  It's  for  the  Cove- 
nanters tae — but  it's  the  new  covenant.  Wull  ye  no' 
read  that  bonny  bit  aboot  the  mony  mansions  and 
the  troubled  heart  ?  " 

"  Vera  weel,  Jean.  I'll  read  it  for  ye,"  answered 
her  husband — "  it's  sweeter  ilka  time  I  turn  to  it. 
Here  it's,"  and  the  wondrous  music  began  to  issue 
from  his  lips : — "  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled. 
...  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions  ;  if 
it  were  not  so  I  would  have  told  you." 

All  hail!  Immortal  spring  whose  living  waters 
have  quenched  the  thirst  of  time !  All  hail !  Im- 
mortal path  that  leadest  to  that  blessed  tide  !  Trod- 
den by  weary  feet  innumerable  hast  thou  been  ;  but 
no  flower  hath  been  crushed,  no  pitfall  worn,  on  all 
thy  radiant  way !  The  living  have  drunk  and  been 
refreshed  at  thine  eternal  fount ;  the  dying  have 
gently  sipped,  and  pressing  on,  have  caught  the  lights 
of  home  !  Oh,  wondrous  words,  the  far  flung  lullaby 
for  the  world's  orphaned  soul,  the  unwasting  balm  for 
the  world's  broken  heart !  Taught  beside  the  moth- 


In    The    FURNACE    "TWICE         73 

er's  knee,  but  learned  amid  the  din"of  battle  or  among 
the  waves  of  death,  thine  are  the  accents  that  prove 
those  lips  Divine. 

"  The  Lord  bless  to  us  the  readin'  o'  His  holy 
word,"  Robert  Wishart  said  reverently  as  he  fin- 
ished, the  formula  unfrayed  by  decades  of  incessant 
use : — "  Let  us  pray." 

They  knelt,  the  priest-like  father  and  the  sons  whom 
he  had  taught  to  pray.  On  simple  words,  with  many 
a  quaint  expression,  with  many  a  phrase  bequeathed 
from  lips  now  mingling  with  the  dust,  with  many  an 
aid  from  the  great  language  of  the  Book,  but  always 
in  the  new  born  ritual  of  a  heart  that  seeks  its  Lord 
by  virgin  paths  of  penitence  and  need,  plying  its 
noble  plaint  as  an  eagle  cleaves  the  ether  with  its 
wing,  the  soul  of  Robert  Wishart  went  upward  to  its 
God. 

They  rise  from  their  knees  and  are  all  standing  now. 

"  We'll  gang  to  oor  beds,  my  laddies  ;  the  fire's  low 
and  the  clock'll  no'  need  windin'  the  nicht." 

"Good-night,  father,"  they  said  together,  and 
started  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Guid-nicht ;  but  ye'll  no'  gang  wi'oot  a  word  to 
yir  mither.  Mebbe  she's  restin'.  I'll  let  ye  ken. 
He  passed  into  the  room,  their  unchanged  room  since 
he  had  brought  her  there  rejoicing  as  his  bride. 
Reuben  and  Stephen  waited  for  a  moment,  but  he 
did  not  reappear. 

"  I  guess  she's  sleeping,"  said  Reuben,  "  we'll 
go  on." 

They  heard  a    ound,  not  articulate  or  intelligible, 


74  THE   UNDERTOW 

but  they  knew  it  was  their  father ;  they  lingered  at 
the  door  beneath  the  stair.  A  minute  passed,  silent 
still. 

"  Let  us  see,"  said  Stephen,  and  the  brothers  turned 
together  to  the  room.  The  lamp  was  burning  dimly, 
almost  out,  and  they  could  detect  the  odour  of  the 
burning  wick.  Yet  there  was  light  enough  to  show 
them  a  bending  form,  the  same  beside  which  they 
had  knelt  in  the  room  without.  It  was  their  father's, 
low  bowed,  and  his  hands  were  clasped,  and  pressed 
against  his  cheek.  They  looked  closer,  and  observed 
that  another  hand  was  between  his  own,  tightly  held. 

"  That's  mother's  hand  he's  holding,"  Reuben 
whispered.  "  I  wonder  if  she's  worse,"  for  they  were 
both  amazed,  demonstrations  of  tenderness  before 
other  eyes  being  rare  in  such  lives  as  theirs.  They 
moved  closer  and  looked  intently ;  but  their  father 
seemed  unconscious  of  their  presence. 

"  Get  the  other  lamp,  Stephen,"  Reuben  said,  his 
voice  changed  strangely  from  that  of  a  moment  be- 
fore. Stephen  obeyed,  and  returned  in  an  instant 
with  the  light. 

Reuben  took  it  from  his  hands,  holding  it  closer  to 
the  peaceful  face  upon  the  pillow.  Peaceful  indeed 
it  was — for  the  long  strife  was  over  ;  and  the  gentle 
smile,  such  as  every  broken  lad  beholds  on  his  dead 
mother's  face,  betokened  that  the  new-found  rest  was 
sweet. 

He  placed  the  lamp  upon  the  table,  looking  long 
into  his  brother's  face ;  for  kinship  is  never  really 
known  till  such  an  hour  brings  the  great  illumination. 


In    The    FURNACE    TWICE         75 

Then  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  father's  head,  never 
thus  laid  before.  The  father  moved,  and  turned  his 
face  upward  toward  his  sons. 

"  Yir  mither's  restin',  as  I  told  ye,"  he  said  softly ; 
and  a  wonderful  light  looked  out  upon  them  from  his 
eyes.  "  She  aye  tell't  me  she'd  gang  hame  like  this 
some  day — but  I  never  thocht  'twad  be  sae  easy.  It's 
hame  onyway — and  it's  beautiful.  Luik  at  yir  mith- 
er's face." 

They  did  look,  but  tears  soon  stopped  their  gaze ; 
and  they  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Come  away,  father,"  they  whispered  to  the  kneel- 
ing man. 

"  Na,  na,"  he  answered,  looking  up,  "  what  way 
would  I  gang  awa'  ?  She's  my  ain  Jean — and  the 
room's  sweet  wi'  the  Saviour's  presence.  He  cam' 
again  and  receivit  her  to  Himsel' — tak  the  lamp  wi' 
ye.  I  willna  need  it." 

They  went  out,  carrying  the  lamp  with  them  as  he 
wished,  and  sat  silently  in  the  room. 

"  Shouldn't  we  go  and  call  some  of  the  neigh- 
bours ?  "  said  Stephen,  presently.  "  We'll  need  some 
one." 

"  Not  now,"  answered  his  brother.  "  We'll  wait 
till  father's  through." 

A  little  later,  they  went  together  across  the  room, 
looking  in  at  the  open  door.  Their  father  was  still 
bowed  beside  the  precious  dead. 

"  Sleep  on,  my  Jean,"  they  heard  him  murmur. 
"  Sleep  sweet,  my  lassie ;  yir  rest  is  won,  weel  won, 
my  bonny." 


76  THE    UNDERTOW 

Whereat  they  took  one  long  look  into  each  other's 
face,  and  then  the  elder  brother  drew  Stephen  gently 
to  himself,  his  arm  encircling  him  with  a  tenderness 
like  to  that  they  were  to  know  no  more.  The  tears 
were  gushing  from  his  eyes,  but  he  still  sought  to 
staunch  the  flow  of  his  brother's  grief,  caressing  him 
as  he  had  been  wont  to  do  in  the  days  that  were  now 
so  far  behind  them. 

"  I  want  my  mother,"  Stephen  suddenly  cried  out, 
the  eternal  childlike  wailing  through  his  voice. 

"  Come,  Stephen,  come,"  whispered  Reuben. 
"  Our  mother  is  with  God — and  father." 

"  Let  us  go  back,  Rube,"  he  sobbed  again.  "  Let 
us  go  back :  father's  all  alone." 

"  Come,  Stephen,  come  away ;  our  father's  not 
alone — he's  with  them  both." 


VI 

The  SCHOLAR  LEASES  for  ENGLAND 

THE  morning  sun  arose  serene  and  bright,  to 
greet  with  wondering  eye  the  old  surprise 
of  sin  and  struggle,  of  death  and  desolate- 
ness,  caressing  each  as  best  he  could  with  his  un- 
broken calm. 

The  day  rolled  by  on  silent  hinges,  radiant  to  the 
last,  every  hour  counted  precious  by  those  whose 
silent  treasure  was  to  be  borne  from  them  on  the 
morrow.  Stephen  could  not  but  marvel  at  his  father's 
calmness  ;  for  he  moved  among  them  like  one  girded 
with  a  panoply  they  might  not  make  their  own. 

Throughout  the  day,  he  passed  in  and  out  as 
usual,  overlooking  the  necessary  duties  that  must  not 
be  neglected,  accepting  with  grave  dignity  the  kindly 
words  of  sympathetic  neighbours,  responding  with 
tribute  to  the  dead  in  terms  of  chaste  reserve. 

The  next  day  came,  whose  afternoon  was  to  cast 
its  unretreating  shadow  over  all  the  evening  of  his 
life.  This  was  her  burial  day,  who  had  come  thither 
as  his  bride,  the  fragrance  of  her  coming  destined  to 
grow  sweeter  with  the  years. 

Its  morning  Robert  Wishart  spent  alone  with  his 
beloved  and  Another.  He  emerged  at  noon,  passing 
to  the  door  and  gazing  at  the  rising  slope  before 
him ;  but  from  that  hour  his  eyes  were  never  to  be 

77 


78  THE    UNDERTOW 

withdrawn  from  a  richer  green  upon  far  other  peaks 
on  which  they  three  had  looked  together. 

When  Mr.  Shearer  came,  the  countryside  had  al- 
ready gathered,  sitting  voiceless,  the  great  anthem  of 
silence  arising  from  the  heart  of  loneliness.  They 
had  all  known  her. 

Then  Robert  Wishart  motioned  to  his  sons,  in- 
viting the  minister  too,  as  his  simple  courtesy  sug- 
gested, to  enter  with  them.  Mr.  Shearer  took  a 
quick,  longing  look  at  the  gentle  visage,  then  imme- 
diately withdrew  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Four  or  five  of  the  neighbours,  denied  admission 
to  the  crowded  house,  were  standing  by  the  window, 
unconscious  that  the  moment  of  the  great  farewell 
had  come. 

The  father  called  gently  to  one  of  them :  — 

"  Ye'll  no'  mind  if  I  ask  ye  to  gang  awa'  a  meenit, 
Weelum — tak  the  ithers  wi'  ye.  It's  the  last  time 
we'll  be  a'  thegither  here." 

"  Aye,  Robert,  aye ;  we  should  hae  thocht  o't," 
the  other  answered  in  hushed  tones,  and  the  group 
moved  quickly  out  of  view. 

They  stood  together,  together  looking  down  on  the 
unanswering  face.  Theirs  was  the  old,  old  struggle, 
so  oft  repeated,  of  those  who  would  look  enough 
to  last  the  yearning  years,  the  years  whose  vision 
shall  be  mocked  and  thwarted  by  the  grave.  Who 
amongst  us  that  has  not  vainly  striven  thus  to  lay  up 
treasure  against  this  famine  of  the  heart  ? 

A  low  moan  escaped  Reuben's  lips.  Stephen  was 
trembling. 


The  SCHOLAR  LEA  YES  for  ENGLAND     79 

"  Dinna  my  sons,  dinna ! "  their  father  pleaded. 
"  She  had  a  gran'  hame  gaein' — and  she  was  lang 
spared  to  us — and  she's  happy  the  nicht — an',  an'  it's 
the  will  o'  God,"  he  added,  his  hands  tightly  clasped, 
and  drawn  to  his  full  height — "  it's  the  will  o'  God," 
he  repeated,  finding  precious  to  his  soul  the  shelter 
of  that  great  pavilion. 

And  when  he  opened  the  door  and  came  forth  to 
the  people,  the  downcast  eyes  of  his  neighbours,  had 
they  been  suddenly  upraised,  would  have  seen  the 
glory  of  God  upon  the  bridegroom's  face. 


When  the  evening  was  come,  Stephen  and  his 
father  were  sitting  in  their  accustomed  places,  Reu- 
ben without,  and  busy  as  before. 

"  Put  on  yir  cap,  Stephen ;  let's  tak  a  bit  walk 
thegither — the  evenin's  fine." 

They  strolled  out,  passing  the  barn,  which  gave 
forth  its  wonted  noises ;  they  could  hear  Reuben's 
voice  within  as  he  moved  among  them. 

'•'  ¥"ir  gaein'  awa',  Stephen,"  his  father  said  sud- 
denly, concluding  a  long  silence.  "  Yir  gaein'  awa', 
and  I'll  no'  hae  ye  wi'  me ;  but  it'll  aye  rest  yir  heart 
to  ken  how  guid  an'  faithfu'  Reuben  is.  That's  no' 
to  say,  mind  ye,  that  ye're  no'  guid  and  faithfu'  tad 
But  ye're  called  awa' — ye're  to  preach  the  gospel,  and 
ye  canna  bide  at  hame,  like  Reuben." 

Steph  an  started.  He  wondered  if  his  father's  words 
had  the  meaning  they  would  seem  to  convey. 

"  Why  do  you  say  I'm  going  away,  father  ?     Or 


8o  THE    UNDERTOW 

what  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  Going  where  ?  "  he 
asked  eagerly. 

"  I  thocht  ye'd  ask  me  that,"  his  father  replied, 
smiling  slightly,  "  and  that's  the  verra  thing  I  was 
wantin'  to  tell  ye.  I've  decided  aboot  yon  maitter 
you  and  me  was  talkin'  aboot." 

"  What  have  you  decided,  father  ?  "  asked  the  son, 
though  he  knew  well  what  the  decision  was ;  nor  did 
it  seem  so  sweet  as  he  had  dreamed. 

"  I've  decided  for  to  gie  ye  the  money  I  got  frae 
the  Duke,"  said  the  old  man  very  quietly,  "  and 
ye'll  gang  till  the  great  college  in  Edinburgh.  And 
I'll  trust  ye  aboot  the  new  the51ogy,  my  son.  I 
wadna  wunner  if  it  wad  cure  ye  athegither,  gaein' 
richt  to  the  fountain  head — '  a  hair  frae  the  hide  o" 
the  hound  that  bit  ye,'  my  faither  aye  used  to  say. 
Ye'll  mebbe  find  it's  like  thae  new  kinds  o'  parritch  ye 
hear  aboot — they  aye  come  back  to  the  auld  oatmeal, 
they  tell  me." 

Stephen  interrupted  him.  "  The  old  oatmeal's 
good  enough  for  me,  father.  Only  one  might  fand 
it  purer — free  from  shells,  you  know." 

His  father  smiled.  "  I'll  risk  the  shells,"  he  said 
simply.  "  I've  been  riskin'  them  since  afore  ye  was 
born;  and  sae  did  my  faither— -and  yir  mither, 
Stephen,  yir  mither  found  it  pure  eneuch.  But  ye'll 
try  the  great  college,  as  I  said  to  ye.  My  mind's  made 
up — *  mak  a  spoon  or  spile  a  horn,'  as  my  faither  used 
to  say." 

"  I  want  to  tell  you,  father,  how  greatly  I  appreciate 
your  kindness,"  Stephen  ventured,  a  little  later.  "  I 


The  SCHOLAR  LEA  YES  for  ENGLAND    81 

value  that  more  than  I  do  the  money — and  I'll  try  to 
make  a  wise  use  of  it." 

"  There's  no  needcessity  for  thankin'  me ;  I'm  yir 
faither.  And  it's  no'  me  as  should  be  thankit,  ony- 
how.  There's  summat  I  ought  to  tell  ye.  Are  ye 
listenin',  Stephen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,  I'm  listening ;  what  is  it  ?  "  answered 
Stephen,  for  he  knew  the  significance  of  his  father's 
tone. 

"  There's  twa  things  I'm  wantin'  to  tell  ye,"  the 
old  man  went  on ;  "  the  yin's  aboot  yir  mither — and 
the  ither's  aboot  Reuben.  It's  to  them  alane  ye're 
owin'  yir  trip  to  Edinburgh.  The  vera  nicht  yir 
mither  died — ye  was  oot  haein'  yir  bit  walk — she 
ca'd  me  into  the  room ;  and  what  div  ye  think  she 
said?" 

"  How  could  I  tell,  father  ?  Something  kind  and 
good,  I'm  sure,"  said  her  son. 

"  Aye,  'twas  baith  kind  and  guid — '  father,  ye'd 
better  let  the  laddie  gang ' — that  was  what  she  said. 
Then  she  said  as  how  Reuben  had  asked  her  to  plead 
wi'  me  to  let  ye  gang — and  Reuben  spoke  to  me 
himsel'." 

«  What  ?  "  interrupted  Stephen,  "  Reuben  what? " 

"  Reuben  spoke  to  me  himsel' — 'twas  fair  noble  of 
the  laddie.  He  said  we  a'  had  eneuch  to  dae  us  here ; 
an'  if  Stephen  wantit  mair  learnin'  we  ought  to  let 
him  gang  where  he  cud  get  it.  There  was  naethin' 
he  wantit  for  himsel1,  he  said.  And  there  was  some- 
thing mair,  but  I  dinna  ken  if  I  ought  to  tell't."  And 
the  voice  that  spoke  the  words  seemed  husky  now. 


82  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  What  was  it,  father  ?  Do  tell  me.  I  know  it 
was  worthy  of  him." 

The  one  thus  importuned  was  silent  for  a  minute, 
seating  himself  upon  a  stone,  the  better  to  give  him- 
self up  to  the  necessary  meditation. 

"  Aye,  'twas  worthy — 'twas  worthy,  I'm  thinkin'," 
he  said  at  length,  "  and  I'll  tell  ye  what  it  was — yell 
no'  forget  it.  He  said,  if  I'd  gie  ye  the  money,  he'd 
aye  bide  wi'  me  to  the  end.  He  was  thinkin'  o'  gaein' 
awa'  before,  ye  ken.  But  he  said  he'd  bide  wi'  me  to 
the  end — which  I'm  hopin'  '11  no'  be  ower  lang,"  his 
voice  trembling  as  he  spoke. 

"  That  was  noble  of  him,  noble  of  him,  father," 
Stephen  said,  struggling  with  emotion. 

"  'Twas  fair  beautiful,"  returned  the  other,  "  and  ye 
can  hae  the  money,  Stephen — and  yir  faither's 
blessin'  wi't.  If  Reuben  doesna  need  it,  I  dinna  need 
it  mysel'.  I  tell't  ye,  when  ye  spoke  to  me  afore,  that 
I  was  thinkin'  to  tak  yir  mither  for  a  wee  bit  holiday 
— but  she's  gone  on  ahead  o'  me,"  and  the  trembling 
voice  was  now  choked  with  tears,  the  struggling  face 
turned  from  his  son,  gazing  at  a  distant  window 
through  the  bitter  mist. 

Stephen  scarce  knew  what  to  do.  The  heavenly 
art  of  comfort  had  not  yet  been  learned  by  him, 
especially  toward  his  father.  His  own  eyes  were 
dim,  and  he  laid  his  hand  helplessly  on  his  father's 
arm.  The  latter  shook  himself  slightly,  resolved  to 
finish  bravely  what  he  had  begun  to  say. 

"  Sae  she'll  no'  be  needin'  it,  Stephen — and  I'll  no'  be 
needin'  it — I  hae  treasure  itherwhere.  An'  I'll  gie  it 


The  SCHOLAR  LEA  YES  for  ENGLAND    83 

to  ye — I'll  gie  it  to  ye  when  we  gang  back  to  the 
hoose.  Let's  gang  noo." 

He  linked  the  action  to  the  word,  rising  as  he 
spoke,  slowly  followed  by  his  wondering  son,  upon 
whose  mind  the  greatness  of  his  father's  life  was 
slowly  dawning. 

They  came  to  the  house,  to  find  Reuben  drawing 
from  his  faithful  violin  the  strains  of  the  Land  of  the 
Leal.  Stephen  moves  to  light  the  lamp,  but  his  fa- 
ther's hand  restrains  him  till  the  last  strain  has  died 
away. 

"  Ye  can  licht  the  lamp  noo,  Stephen,"  he  said. 

This  done,  he  rises  and  takes  it  from  his  son ;  then 
he  turns  toward  the  room  in  which  he  had  stood  but 
a  few  hours  before.  Returning  in  a  moment,  he 
holds  in  his  hand  a  well-worn  wallet,  stoutly  filled. 

"  'Twas  my  faither's,"  he  said  abstractedly,  "  but 
he  never  had  sae  muckle  in't.  But  he  had  ither 
treasure,  tae,  that  nae  human  hand  cud  hold.  It's  a 
lot  o'  money,  this,"  he  added,  reverting  to  the  earthly. 

One  by  one  he  counted  out  the  bills,  placing  them 
in  Stephen's  palm,  intoning  the  increasing  figures 
with  a  solemn  voice  till  the  grand  total  was  an- 
nounced. 

"  There  ye  are,  Stephen,"  he  exclaimed,  when  the 
operation  was  complete,  "  ye  hae  it  a'.  My  hand's 
empty,  an'  yir  hand's  fu' — mebbe  it's  the  same  wi' 
oor  heids,"  he  appended  in  an  undertone ;  but  a  cer- 
tain smile  that  illumined  the  strong  features  indicated 
that  he  had  his  "  doots"  concerning  this,  as  he  would 
have  said  himself. 


84  THE    UNDERTOW 

Stephen  was  clothed  with  embarrassment,  though 
he  knew  not  why.  Alas  !  He  knew  not  why.  He 
held  the  money  between  his  thumb  and  finger  for  a 
moment,  then  bore  it  toward  his  pocket.  This  may 
have  impressed  him  as  unseemly — too  hasty  burial 
after  death.  In  any  case  he  recalled  the  motion, 
sitting  with  the  unfamiliar  sheaf  still  enclosed  as 
before.  He  moved  uneasily,  and  the  rustle  of  its 
foliage  could  be  heard,  that  foliage  which  poor  man- 
kind accounts  as  the  very  fruitage  of  the  tree  of  life. 
At  length  he  spoke. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,  father. 
I  shall  never  forget  your  generosity.  And  I'm  sure 
I'll  try  to  make  a  good  use  of  the  money ;  and — 
and — the  lamp's  smoking,  father,"  he  concluded  hast- 
ily, hailing  the  pillar  of  cloud  as  gladly  as  did  ever 
bewildered  Israelite  of  old. 

The  father  sprang  quickly  to  set  it  right,  for  it  was 
smoking  heartily,  doubtless  overcome  by  the  un- 
wonted spectacle. 

"  I  know  it,  Stephen,  I  know  it,"  his  father  cried ; 
but  whether  referring  to  the  lamp  or  to  the  lan- 
guage could  not  be  told,  "  and  I  hope  ye'll  aye  be 
carefu'  wi'  money.  A  minister  that  doesna  look 
weel  to  his  affairs  is  a  puir  cratur.  They  maun 
soar,  nae  doot — but  they  should  aye  keep  their  feet 
on  the  solid  ground  aneath  them." 

Stephen  felt  he  should  say  something  more : — "  And 
I'm  more  than  thankful  to  you,  Reuben,  for  the  un- 
selfish part  you  have  taken.  After  all  your  hard 
work  on  the  farm  and " 


The  SCHOLAR  LEAVES  for  ENGLAND    85 

"  Oh,  don't,  Steve — please  don't,"  Reuben  inter- 
rupted ;  "  you're  needing  it,  and  I'm  not — and  it's  no 
more  than  right.  Please  don't  say  a  word,  Steve." 

"  And  there's  ae  thing  mair,  Stephen,"  broke  in  the 
father,  evidently  aware  that  speech  was  difficult  to 
the  others,  "  when  ye  gang  till  the  auld  country,  ye 
maun  gang  to  see  the  Duke.  I  want  ye  to  thank 
him  yirsel'.  Ye'll  find  him  juist  a  man,  like  ither 
men.  Dinna  be  feart  o'  him — he  likes  an  honest 
man,  if  he's  his  faither's  son.  He'll  ask  ye  to  hae 
supper  wi'  him,  nae  doot — an'  mebbe  to  bide  the 
nicht.  Ye'll  find  the  hoose  a  grand  yin." 

"  Where  does  he  live  ?  "  asked  Stephen. 

"  At  Kelso — ye  ken  where  Kelso  is.  It's  no'  far 
frae  Jedboro,  where  mony  o'  yir  forbears  is  buried — 
at  the  Abbey.  An'  it's  no'  muckle  mair  nor  an  hour 
or  twa  frae  Edinburgh  itsel'.  My  faither  used  to  drive 
the  sheep  to  the  market  at  Auld  Reeky  mony  a 
time." 

"  At  Kelso ! "  repeated  Stephen.  "  I'd  better  mark 
that  down ;  "  with  which  he  rummaged  in  his  breast 
pocket,  finding  no  tablet,  but  taking  opportunity  to 
deposit  the  money. 

"  Here's  a  bit  leaf  oot  o'  the  almanac,"  said  his 
father  as  he  handed  it  to  him,  observing  the  fruitless- 
ness  of  his  search — "write  it  doon  on  that.  Ye'll 
call  the  Duke  '  His  Grace '  when  ye're  talkin'  to  him, 
mind — a  strange  kind  o'  a  name  for  a  man,  tae,"  he 
mused,  "  but  it's  what  he  aye  gets — and  his  faither 
afore  him.  He  has  yin  servant  to  lace  his  boots,  an* 
anither  yin  to  tie  them,  my  faither  said.  The  old 


86  THE    UNDERTOW 

Duke  had  the  like  o'  that  aboot  him — but  they  could 
gie  him  naethin'  at  the  last  but  a  grave  to  himsel',1' 
and  the  philosopher  looked  out  from  serious  eyes. 

"  Where  is  he  buried,  father  ?  "  Reuben  asked,  his 
simple  life  far  removed  from  the  ways  of  great- 
ness. 

"  In  the  chaipel,  Reuben — the  chaipel  at  the  castle," 
his  father  answered — "  but  it's  in  the  ground,  for  a' 
that,"  he  added  sententiously ;  "  and  the  man  wha 
laced  his  shoon  and  the  ither  yin  wha  tied  them — 
they're  buried  no'  far  frae  there.  An'  they  hae  a 
grave  apiece.  Weel,  laddies,  the  nicht  is  wi'  us  ;  let's 
mak  ready  for  oor  rest." 


Preparations  for  Stephen's  long  journey  were  soon 
completed.  His  trunk  was  ready,  prepared  by  other 
hands  than  those  whose  benediction,  far  carrying, 
hath  ever  rested  on  the  tender  toil.  The  felicitations 
and  admonitions  of  his  old-time  friends  and  neigh- 
bours had  been  duly  received  and  acknowledged. 
Introductions,  messages,  addresses,  had  been  duly 
entrusted  to  the  departing  one,  duly  forgotten  or 
ignored,  as  it  has  ever  been  since  the  foundation  of 
the  world.  A  sleeting  rain  marred  the  morning 
of  his  departure,  and  Robert  Wishart  announced  that 
he  had  abandoned  his  original  purpose  of  going  to 
the  station. 

"  I'll  stand  at  the  door,"  he  said,  "  and  wave  ye  as 
far  as  I  can  see.  I  want  yir  last  sight  o'  the  auld 
place  to  be  mixed  wi'  yin  o'  the  auld  folks — an'  I'll 


The  SCHOLAR  LEAVES  for  ENGLAND    87 

bide  here  till  ye  come  back,  if  it's  the  will  o'  God 
that  we're  to  meet  again." 

He  wrung  his  son's  hand  when  the  parting  hour 
came ;  but  no  tear,  no  breaking  voice,  could  be  de- 
tected. 

"  Mind  ye  yir  mither,  Stephen,"  he  said  in  the  lowest 
of  tones,  "  ye  ken  what  made  her  life  sae  beautiful, 
and  what  made  the  valley  bricht.  Yir  mither's  God 
gang  \vi'  ye." 

Then  he  turned  and  went  into  the  house,  reappear- 
ing to  wave  a  dainty  kerchief  that  Stephen's  heart 
knew  well. 

The  brothers  drove  to  the  station  in  almost  un- 
broken silence.  When  a  distant  wreath  of  smoke  be- 
tokened the  approaching  train,  Reuben  drew  Stephen 
aside. 

"  Take  this,  Stephen,"  he  said,  trying  to  thrust 
something  soft  into  his  hand.  "  It's  not  much — it's 
only  eleven  dollars.  I  saved  it  from  the  wood  rcpney 
to  get  a  dress  for  mother — and  she's " 

"  Reuben,  I  can't — I  won't." 

"  Do,  Steve,  do,"  the  other  said  again,  "  please 
take  it.  Get  some  books  with  it,  Steve — and  write 
her  name  in  them.  Good-bye !  Good-bye ! " 

But  with  the  memory  of  Reuben's  greater  sacrifice 
still  before  him,  Stephen  pushed  back  his  brother's 
pleading  hand.  "  No,  Rube,  you  keep  it  and  buy 
something  for  Bessie.  Good-bye.  God  bless  you, 
Rube." 

An  instant  later  the  train  was  off,  bearing  with  it 
a  strangely  troubled  heart,  swelling  with  many 


88  THE    UNDERTOW 

thoughts.  The  memory  of  his  mother,  the  exalted 
vision  of  his  father,  the  warm  tide  of  his  brother's  un- 
selfish love — all  these  united  to  stir  the  tumult  of  his 
mind. 

His  hand  is  before  his  face.  "  Make  me  true,  oh, 
God,"  he  cries  half-aloud ;  and  answering  purpose 
fills  his  soul.  His  glance  roams  through  the  window, 
and  he  sees  familiar  fields ;  for  the  iron  road  leaves 
this  peaceful  neighbourhood  by  a  long  and  slowly 
rounding  curve.  A  familiar  house  flashes  on  his  view. 
He  knows  it  well,  and  his  heart  leaps  with  a  new 
emotion.  Still  gazing,  he  sees  a  maiden's  figure  be- 
neath a  familiar  thorn,  already  whitening  with  its 
spreading  blossoms.  Golden  tresses  hang  about  the 
wistful  face,  turned  in  sad  eagerness  toward  him  as 
though  she  knew  his  place.  A  branch,  broken  from 
the  tree,  is  in  her  hand,  and  she  is  waving  it  in  gentle 
silence  toward  the  departing  train. 

A  moment,  and  the  scene  has  vanished  from  his 
view ;  the  train  rushes  on — but  an  old  tenant  has  en- 
tered Stephen's  heart  to  find  it  swept  and  garnished 
once  again ;  and  conflict  rages  like  a  flood. 


VII 

LONDON'S  PREACHER-ACrOR 

"  "W"       ET  us  take  an  observatory,  Mather." 

"  Take  what,  Wishart — whatever  are  you 

JL — J  talking  about  ?  " 

"An  observatory — a  bus,  I  mean;  surprised  I 
have  to  explain  so." 

"  Oh,  I  understand — not  bad,  either.  All  right. 
No,  that  one's  no  good  for  us — here  we  are,  this  is 
for  the  Strand :  room  on  top,  too — two  seats  beside 
the  driver.  Come  along." 

And  in  a  moment,  swaying  and  rocking  along  the 
passage,  the  two  companions  had  gained  their  places, 
the  vantage  points  of  all  London,  the  right  hand 
and  the  left  of  a  genial  driver  of  a  London  bus. 

Stephen  Wishart  has  the  right-hand  seat,  looking 
with  all  his  eyes,  and  listening  with  all  his  ears,  en- 
chanted by  the  magic  of  the  world's  metropolis. 

And  his  companion,  Ernest  Mather,  was  a  student 
and  prospective  minister  like  himself;  on  the  broad 
Atlantic  these  two  had  met,  and  there  their  friendship 
had  been  formed.  Mather  had  arrived  in  London 
somewhat  earlier  than  the  other ;  his  sojourn  in  the 
great  city  was  almost  at  an  end. 

"This  bus  takes  us  to  the  Lyceum,  does  it  not, 
driver  ?  "  asked  Stephen  of  the  man  beside  him. 

"  Right   you   are,   guv'nor ;    that's   what   it  does. 
89 


90  THE    UNDERTOW 

Leastways,  it'll  set  you  down  at  Wellington,  an'  that's 
'arf  a  stone's-throw.  You'll  be  after  'Enry  Hirving, 
I  reckon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  what  we're  after,"  Mather  agreed. 
« Would  you  tell  us  whereabouts  in  the  theatre 
we  should  take  our  tickets  ?  My  friend  and  I  aren't 
very  familiar  with  such  things." 

"  That's  accordin'  to  'ow  you  feels,"  returned  the 
Londoner,  his  face  a  battle-field  whereon  a  grin  was 
tasting  victory.  "  That's  accordin'  to  'ow  you  feels  ; 
a  box  is  a  helegant  place  if  you  feels  that  way ;  don't 
care  for  'em  myself — too  hexposed — draughty  too, 
don't  you  know.  I  allus  takes  the  dress  circle  my- 
self— when  I  takes  the  kiddies,  upper  gallery,  front 
row — only  seven  bob  apiece,"  and  the  driver  winked  at 
all  the  Strand.  A  few  minutes'  drive,  enlivened  by 
further  comment  from  the  Jehu,  brought  the  sight- 
seers to  their  destination,  and  they  were  soon  settled 
in  such  seats  as  they  found  it  possible  to  secure. 
Delicious  twilight  clothed  the  great  playhouse  in  its 
suggestive  shades,  and  the  seductive  strains  of  soft 
music  stole  about  the  expectant  pair  who  settled 
themselves  for  an  experience  of  unrehearsed  enjoy- 
ment. 

Soon  the  music  sank  to  silence,  the  curtain  rolled 
slowly  upward,  and  the  great  dialogue  began,  the 
actors  on  the  stage  calling  to  the  silent  actors  beyond 
the  footlights,  each  answering  according  to  the 
measure  of  tragedy  or  comedy  that  life's  great  play 
had  brought  him.  Hired  hands  they  are  that  on  the 
stage  hold  the  mirror  before  us,  but  eager  eyes 


LONDON'S  PREACHER-ACTOR    91 

peer  into  the  glass  to  find  the  reflection  of  their  own 
chequered  lives.  Nor  do  they  gaze  in  vain.  Com- 
monplace and  plain  though  they  affirm  life  to  be, 
here  is  it  clothed  with  romantic  interest  as  they  gaze 
upon  it  from  without,  its  pathos  and  its  humour  cast- 
ing a  subtle  charm  they  have  failed  to  find  in  the 
reality.  What  they  have  deemed  life's  drudgery  all 
the  day  is  now  the  wizardry  of  the  night ;  and  life's 
old  story  takes  its  sweet  revenge  on  those  who  had 
yesterday  maligned  it  and  who  to-morrow  will  de- 
spise. 

"  Oh,  Wishart,  look,  look !  There  he  is — there  he 
is  at  last — that  tall  one  there — that  is  Mathias  !  " 

A  storm  of  welcome  rolled  through  the  Lyceum, 
the  scene  of  so  many  of  his  triumphs,  as  the  great 
actor  came  upon  the  stage,  a  panoply  of  power,  the 
unearned  gift  of  heaven,  about  him  as  he  came. 

With  intensifying  flame  the  play  burned  on.  It 
was  that  modern  passion  play,  "  The  Bells,"  on 
which  the  mighty  actor  first  entered  like  a  conqueror 
into  the  great  citadel  of  his  fame,  through  the 
shadowy  gates  of  human  conscience.  Stephen  sat, 
sometimes  thrilling,  sometimes  trembling,  but  in  an 
unbroken  thrall  till  the  last  dread  scene  released  him. 
The  murder  amid  the  falling  snow,  the  remorse,  the 
exultation  over  the  ill-gotten  gain,  the  awful  stain 
upon  the  gold,  the  haunted  merriment,  the  ghostly 
interruption  of  the  accursed  bells,  the  skeleton  at  the 
feast,  the  handwriting  on  the  wall,  the  marriage 
dance  and  its  awful  music  from  afar,  the  frightful 
waking  dream — all  these  blended  in  the  dreadsome 


92  THE    UNDERTOW 

message  which  the  great  actor's  eyes  and  lips  com- 
bined to  utter  with  such  tremendous  power  that  the 
shadow  of  the  Judgment  Day  seemed  to  have  al- 
ready fallen.  Stephen  felt  a  strange  tightening  about 
the  throat  as  the  writhing  actor  struggled  for  es- 
cape ;  and  his  despairing  cry  : — "  Take  this  rope 
from  my  neck ;  take  this  rope  from  my  neck,  I  say," 
had  a  ghostly  echo  in  Stephen's  heart. 

The  actor's  choking  cry  was  soon  stifled  by  Lon- 
don's all  conquering  voice  as  Stephen  Wishart  and 
his  friend  wended  their  way  back  to  the  hotel  at 
which  the  latter  had  made  his  home  during  his  brief 
visit  to  the  mighty  city. 

They  walked  slowly  along  the  Strand,  enjoying 
its  myriad  sights  and  sounds,  mingling  with  the 
surging  throng;  for  the  theatres  everywhere  have 
turned  their  inmates  out,  and  the  streets  keep  Vanity 
Fair. 

"  Wasn't  it  glorious  ?  "  Mather  said  at  length. 

"  Wonderful,"  answered  Stephen,  regaining  his 
friend  after  a  moment's  separation  in  the  crowd, 
"  let  us  go  back  by  the  Embankment ;  it's  so  much 
quieter  there.  This  street  leads  down  to  it." 

They  were  soon  upon  that  noble  river-walk,  its 
quietness  refreshing  them  like  music,  while  the 
hurrying  lights  on  the  murmuring  Thames  gleamed 
before  them. 

"  Yes,  it  was  really  wonderful,"  Stephen  renewed. 
"  I  never  heard  a  sermon  that  impressed  me  more," 
at  which  declaration  he  felt  some  measure  of  satis- 


LONDON'S   PREACHER-ACTOR    93 

faction — like  a  man  who  has  paid  a  debt.  "  An 
actor  might  do  almost  as  much  good  as  a  minister," 
he  added,  "  for  he  has  a  great  chance  to  appeal  to 
the  human  heart." 

"  Yes,  that  is,  if  he's  a  good  man  himself,"  his 
companion  suggested.  "  By  the  way,  it  must  be 
terrible  to  be  a  minister  and  an  actor  at  the  same 
time.  I  mean,  a  minister  that  is  merely  acting — 
sometimes  all  their  lives  must  seem  like  one  long 
play.  And  then  they  must  be  so  afraid  that  some 
one  will  see  behind  the  scenes.  When  I  heard  the 
great  preacher  at  the  Temple  last  Sunday,  I  felt  that 
any  one  might  see  behind  and  they  would  find  it 
just  as  beautiful  as  it  was  in  front." 

"  Whom  did  you  hear  ?  "  Stephen  asked,  a  hot 
flush  on  his  cheek.  Mather  mentioned  the  name  of 
one  of  London's,  one  of  the  world's  greatest  preachers, 
whereupon  Stephen  expressed  his  purpose  to  hear 
him  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 

"  It's  strange,"  Mather  resumed,  "  but,  do  you 
know,  that  play  impressed  me  to-night  just  the  same 
way  it  did  you." 

"  How  ?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  Like  a  sermon — there  seemed  to  be  an  awful 
lesson  running  all  through  it;  and  I  thought  of  a 
text  that  it  might  have  been  preached  from." 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  Stephen  said,  deep  interest  in  his 
voice ;  for  his  own  mind,  too,  had  been  busy  with 
a  text. 

"  It's  that  one  in  the  Old  Testament,"  said  Mather, 
"  that  one  that  always  seems  to  sound  like  a  voice 


94  THE    UNDERTOW 

coming  from  somewhere  you  can't  see : — '  Be  sure 
your  sin  will  find  you  out.'  And  yet  I'm  sure  it 
wasn't  mentioned  all  through  the  play." 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  it  was,"  said  Stephen,  "  but  I 
thought  of  the  very  same  text." 

"  Wasn't  that  strange  ?  But  then  I  suppose  you 
and  I  are  always  thinking  of  texts.  And  I  believe 
that  was  why  they  listened  so  intently — the  people 
all  listened  as  if  they  were  in  church.  Strange,  too, 
isn't  it ;  for  I  suppose  they  went  there  for  pleasure. 
Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  presume  they  did,"  Stephen  answered, 
"  but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  most  people  have  some- 
thing in  their  past  lives  that  makes  them  listen  to  a 
sermon  of  that  kind  whether  they  want  to  or  not — 
it's  like  turning  back  to  some  page  with  a  stain  on 
it;  and  that  has  a  dreadful  fascination  for  nearly 
everybody." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Mather  earnestly. 

"  I  don't  know — but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  God 
has  something  to  do  with  it,"  Stephen  replied  after  a 
pause. 

In  silence  they  walked  on,  both  pondering  a  com- 
mon theme.  Mather  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Well,  I  guess  we'll  have  to  say  good-bye,  old 
man  ;  here's  my  hotel — will  you  come  in  ?  No  ? 
Well,  perhaps  it  is  a  little  late.  When  may  I  hope 
to  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  I'm  hoping  we'll  meet  in  Edinburgh,"  replied 
Stephen  Wishart,  and,  making  their  farewells  again, 
each  went  his  separate  way. 


LONDON'S  PREACHER-ACTOR    95 

Stephen  had  gone  but  a  little  distance  when  the  rich 
sights  and  sounds  of  one  of  London's  great  hostelries 
beguiled  him.  He  remarked  the  name,  recalled  that 
it  was  the  resort  of  some  transatlantic  friends  of  his — 
and  stepped  within.  The  names  he  sought  were  not 
upon  the  register,  and  he  turned  idly  to  look  about 
him. 

Then  he  passed  through  the  rotunda,  marvelling  at 
its  grandeur,  weaving  swift  fancies  about  the  forms, 
richly  cloaked,  that  floated  in  one  by  one.  The 
glance  they  cast  on  him  as  they  passed  seemed  to 
chill  him  with  its  haughtiness.  Yet  the  very  flavour  of 
the  place  enchanted  him.  This  was  life,  and  this  the 
vision  of  the  world,  so  often  outlined  in  ambitious 
dreams  !  He  took  a  place  on  one  of  the  richly  up- 
holstered couches,  drinking  in  the  scene.  His  seat  was 
in  a  secluded  corner  and  he  could  see,  while  he  him- 
self was  almost  hidden. 

How  poor  and  small,  after  all,  he  thought,  had  been 
his  former  life,  college-taught  though  it  was,  so  lus- 
tre-lacking when  compared  with  this  glittering  life 
and  its  far-off  bright  horizon ! 

Two  or  three  gentlemen  emerged  from  the  lift,  ob- 
sequiously greeted  by  a  liveried  lackey  who  led  the 
way  to  the  curb,  his  whistle  reechoing  the  while.  A 
slamming  door  resounded,  the  pavement  rang  with 
hurrying  hoofs ;  and  the  lackey  turned,  tossing  a  coin 
before  him. 


VIII 
The  METROPOLIS  by  LAMPLIGHT 

STEPHEN  rose  hastily  from  his  seat  and  met 
the  returning  lackey  in  the  vestibule.  "  Can 
you  give  me  some  information  ?  "  he  ventured. 

"  I'm  just  the  boy  that  can  do  that,  sir,"  said  the 
lackey,  scenting  another  tip.  "  I  just  gave  some  val- 
uable information  to  them  gay  sports,"  he  remarked 
significantly. 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  they're  going  this  time  of 
night  ? "  Stephen  asked,  glad  to  find  a  directory 
available. 

The  lackey  turned  and  looked  at  him  contempla- 
tively. Such  virgin  innocence  was  rare  in  his  exper- 
ience ;  for  he  was  a  Londoner,  and  carefully  versed. 

"  Putting  up  in  the  house  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  No,"  answered  Stephen.  "  I'm  not  stopping 
here." 

"  Oh,"  said  his  companion,  looking  him  up  and 
down,  "  where  do  you  stop  ?  " 

"  Up  near  the  British  Museum,"  answered  Stephen. 
"  At  a  lodging  house  in  Bedford  Square." 

"  That's  a  good  quiet  part — an  awful  good  part 
Nuthin"  to  hurt  you  there.  'Tain't  far  from  the  Or- 
phanage, nuther — the  Bloomsbury  Orphanage,  you 
know,"  he  added  with  a  grin. 

"  How're  you  goin'  home  after  you  leave  here  ?  " 
96 


The  METROPOLIS  by  LAMPLIGHT       97 

"  I  don't  exactly  know,"  said  Stephen,  glad  to  be 
enlightened.  "  The  Underground  wouldn't  take  me 
there,  would  it  ?  " 

"  No,  you  bet  it  won't,"  answered  the  guide ; 
"  won't  take  nobody  there — don't  go  itself.  Tup- 
peny  Tube  ain't  no  good,  'cept  for  the  places  it  goes 
to  itself,"  he  added  seriously  ;  "  bus,  of  course — you 
could  take  a  bus,  but  it's  dangerous — all  sorts  of  bad 
uns  climbs  up  on  to  'em — sits  right  down  aside  you 
and  tells  you  where  they  lives." 

"  I  don't  want  a  bus,"  Stephen  interrupted,  "  don't 
fancy  them  this  hour  of  the  night." 

"  Ain't  that  jest  what  I'm  tellin'  you  ?  I've  been 
in  'em — always  used  to  take  one  goin'  to  Sunday- 
school — but  never  take  'em  now — wasn't  good  for 
my  insides.  Then  there's  a  'ansom.  You  could  take 
one  of  'em — but  they're  so  onreasonable — expects 
you  to  pay  'em,  you  see.  Never  takes  'em  myself — 
bad  for  your  outsides.  Terrible  bad  place,  Lunnon 
is,  every  way  you  take  it.  You  better  walk." 

"  I  guess  I  had.  Then  you're  on  the  ground — and 
it  seems  safer  than  too  far  below  it,  or  too  far  above  it. 
Besides,  I'll  enjoy  the  walk," — and  Stephen  smiled 
amiably.  "  Which  streets  ought  I  to  take  ?  "  he  in- 
terrogated, beginning  to  button  up  his  coat. 

The  director  meditated.  "  Well,  you  could  go 
along  the  Strand " 

"  I  know  the  Strand,"  broke  in  his  listener — "  went 
along  it  to  the  theatre  to-night." 

"  You  could  go  along  the  Strand,"  pursued  the 
authority,  looking  across  the  rotunda  and  despising 


98  THE    UNDERTOW 

the  irrelevant  digression,  "  up  Chancery  Lane  to  'Ol- 
born — then  follow  'Olborn  to  Southampton  Row,  and 
that'll  take  you  there." 

"  Say  that  again,"  said  Stephen,  unfamiliar  with 
navigation. 

"  No,  I  won't,"  rejoined  the  other  solemnly,  "  'tain't 
the  best  way  after  all — too  tame — you're  here  for 
sightseein',  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Stephen  reflectively,  "  of  course — 
that  is " 

"  Exactly,"  said  his  counsellor  and  friend,  "  that's 
what  I  said — you're  here  to  see  life — you  ain't  here 
for  your  health,  are  you  now  ?  " 

Stephen's  silence  was  enough. 

"  Exactly,"  broke  in  the  other — "  I  knowed  that 
the  minute  I  seen  you.  You  ain't  here  for  your 
health,  as  I  was  a  sayin' — you're  here  to  see  life. 
And  when  I  say  life,  I  mean  LIFE,  see?  What's 
your  business  when  you're  'ome  ?  " 

Stephen  hesitated  a  little.  "  Well,  you  see,  I'm  a 
— well,  really,  it's  kind  of  hard  to  say.  My  father's  a 
farmer.  I'm  a — I'm  a  kind  of  a  student.  But,  as  I 
was  saying " — this  with  evident  relief — "  as  I  was 
saying,  or  going  to  say,  I  came  over  here  to  study — 
but  not  to  study  books  altogether,  you  see.  You 
know  what  I  mean,"  he  concluded. 

"  Yes,  I  see ;  I  know  what  you  mean,"  the  other 
responded  in  a  confidential  tone ;  "  you're  meanin' 
to  see  life — ain't  that  what  I  jest  told  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  amended  Stephen.  "  Life  in  its  broad 
sense — human  nature,  you  know." 


The  METROPOLIS  by  LAMPLIGHT       99 

"  Exactly,"  approved  the  other,  evidently  well 
pleased  to  find  that  after  all  their  minds  had  but  a 
single  thought.  "  Exactly  !  And  there  ain't  no  life 
in  its  broad  sense  on  Chancery  Lane — nor  any 
human  nature,  nuther — not  the  kind  you're  lookin' 
for." 

"  Of  course,  it's  dark,"  Stephen  suggested  ;  "  one 
way  would  be  about  as  good  as  another  at  night,  I 
should  think." 

"  That's  jest  where  you're  wrong,"  said  his  sa- 
gacious friend — "  there  ain't  no  real  human  nature 
nowhere  till  it's  dark — certainly  not  in  its  broad  sense 
— but  there  ain't  none  on  Chancery  Lane  no  time. 
Your  best  way  home  is  Piccadilly — there  ain't  no 
spot  in  Lunnon  where  there's  so  much  human  nature 
in  its  broad  sense — that's  what  you  said  you  was 
after — as  you'll  get  in  Piccadilly.  There  ain't  no 
place  can  tetch  it,"  he  affirmed  fervently,  after  due 
reflection. 

It  did  not  take  the  adept  long  to  instruct  the  novice 
how  to  find  the  way.  Such  bearings  are  easily 
taken ;  for  our  first  parents,  pathfinders  they, 
sketched  that  rough  chart  of  which  their  every  de- 
scendant has  a  copy. 

Following  which,  amplified  as  it  is  by  the  triumphs 
of  such  modern  discoverers  as  the  one  he  had  just 
left  behind,  Stephen  was  soon  walking  up  Northum- 
berland Avenue.  In  a  moment  his  senses  were 
thrilled,  and  indeed  almost  overwhelmed,  by  this 
planet's  central  place,  its  mightiest  focus,  Trafalgar 
Square,  whose  glowing  vastness  unfolded  itself  slowly 


ioo  THE    UNDERTOW 

on  his  sight  He  had  seen  the  mighty  Square  be- 
fore ;  but  not  when  the  mystic  night,  retreating  before 
a  brighter  light  than  marked  the  day,  had  invested  it 
with  significance  and  beauty.  Flashing  hansoms  and 
ponderous  carriages  still  gleamed  here  and  there ; 
varied  human  currents  flowed  swiftly  in  and  out  of 
this  greatest  eddy  in  the  world  ;  the  lion  faces  looked 
out  upon  the  human  tide  with  a  tranquil  patience 
that  well  became  such  sentinels  as  have  the  centuries 
before  them  ;  while  above  it  all,  in  immortal  silence, 
brooded  the  mighty  hero's  face,  the  victor's  kingdom 
his  forever. 

The  conquered  and  overthrown  were  also  there — 
in  ragged  homelessness  they  wandered  aimlessly  be- 
neath, their  battle  still  unfinished ;  while,  sometimes 
idly  sauntering,  sometimes  swiftly  hurrying  on  imag- 
inary errand,  the  despairing  wrecks  of  womanhood 
could  be  seen,  their  skirts  fluttering  in  the  chilly 
wind. 

Stephen  looked  upon  the  wondrous  picture,  the 
moral  stimulus  of  the  uplifted  Conqueror  entering  his 
soul ;  upward  he  gazed  at  the  serenity  that  was  dimly 
visible  above;  and  the  world-flung  message  of  the 
great  soldier  thrilled  his  heart. 

Then  he  cast  his  eyes  earthward  again  and  marked 
the  stains  of  sin  and  sorrow  upon  the  mighty 
canvas. 

A  broken  man  of  sixty,  having  noticed  his  upward 
look,  approached  him  with  the  mendicant's  appeal  of 
which  he  was  a  master. 

"  My  grandfather  held  Nelson  in  his  arms  when  he 


The  METROPOLIS  by  LAMPLIGHT      101 

was  shot,"  he  averred  at  last,  after  several  less  ro- 
mantic facts  had  been  recited.  "  An'  he  could  tell 
you  his  last  words,"  he  added  as  conclusive  evidence ; 
for  the  poor  creature  was  not  without  poetic  imagi- 
nation, which  plain  living  is  supposed  to  foster. 

Up  Pall  Mall  he  walked,  past  its  glowing  clubs  and 
kindled  palaces ;  and  soon  the  rising  street  brought 
him  to  the  Mecca  which  the  fervid  lackey  had  bidden 
him  farewell  in  blessing.  It  broke  upon  him  in  a 
crash  of  light.  Leicester  Square  stretched  before 
him  like  a  lane  of  constellations  ;  glowing  crescents 
and  arcs  and  squares  poured  down  their  lustrous 
melody.  The  Spatenberg,  the  Trocadero,  the 
Monico,  the  Criterion,  all  turned  their  glowing  faces 
toward  the  throng,  plying  their  radiant  rivalry  of 
fascination  and  appeal. 

In  this  magnetic  centre,  Regent  Street  and  all  its 
lesser  brethren  found  their  rest  at  last,  pouring  their 
burdens  into  its  willing  bosom,  as  streams  unload 
their  waters  in  the  sea. 

Blessed  and  blessing  in  its  emblem,  a  fountain 
claimed  the  very  centre  as  its  own,  its  rippling  waters 
competing  in  modest  hopefulness  with  the  clanging 
babel  of  the  myriad  voices  that  promised  refreshment 
to  the  weary.  For  sedatives  to  every  passion, 
draughts  for  every  thirst,  breads  for  every  hunger, 
are  offered  here.  But  the  untiring  fountain,  bearing 
the  name  of  the  noble  dead  and  mindful  of  the  uni- 
versal thirst,  still  called  to  all  to  partake  freely  of  its 
treasure,  forsaking  alien  springs. 

Stephen  threaded  his  way  across  the  street,  taking 


102  THE    UNDERTOW 

his  position  beneath  the  Swan  at  the  apex  of  the  tri- 
angle whose  head  it  marks. 

Looking  about  him,  he  remarked  a  constant  stream 
of  wayfarers — mostly  women,  he  noted  wonderingly. 
Round  and  round  they  floated,  reappearing  at  stated 
intervals,  till  he  became  sure  that  the  same  faces  were 
in  evidence  again  and  again.  He  was  perplexed ; 
for  the  hour  was  late  and  the  night  not  particularly 
genial.  He  moved  along  the  street  from  which  the 
Circus  takes  its  name,  crossed  to  the  other  side,  and 
stood  gazing  back  towards  the  spot  he  had  deserted. 


IX 

A    PEARL    of    PRICE 

THE  significant  procession  still  swam  before 
him.     Richly  robed,  with  flashing  diamonds 
and  gleaming  pendants,  the  beautiful  pag- 
eantry   passed    by,    its    participants    casting    arch 
glances,  slacking  as  they  might  their  mincing  pace. 

Stephen's  first  impression  had  been  one  of  distinct 
admiration  for  what  appeared  to  be  beauty,  richly 
decked.  But  it  was  not  long  till  the  painted  perjury 
broke  upon  him — and  his  spirit  filled  with  loathing. 
His  thought  flew  to  his  mother — for  she  too  was  of 
womankind,  as  were  most  of  these ;  and  the  vision  of 
the  simple  white  in  which  she  rested  amid  the  chill 
purity  of  the  grave  seemed  to  bathe  his  soul. 

He  thought  of  Bessie,  too ;  and  her  image  recalled 
the  fragrance  of  that  far-off  fringe  of  woods  and  the 
sweet  cisterns  of  the  evening  air.  But  it  recalled, 
too,  the  flame  that  had  threatened  them  both — and 
his  fluttering  fancy  found  again  its  shelter  by  the  side 
of  her  who  bore  him. 

He  turned  to  look  again  upon  the  siren  throng. 
And,  portentous  in  the  telling — for  a  man's  foes  are 
they  of  his  own  household,  and  the  heart's  great 
peril  is  in  its  undertow — they  did  not  seem  so  dread- 
some  as  before. 

103 


104  THE    UNDERTOW 

But  Stephen  was  by  no  means  numb  to  the  mem- 
ory of  a  moment  gone ;  and  he  checked  his  growing 
conciliation  with  a  word.  Which  word  was  that  im- 
mortal name,  the  mystic  friend,  in  every  age,  of  the 
youth  who  is  far  from  home,  casting  out  devils  with 
its  love-bright  sound.  Nor  was  the  struggle  hard. 
Vermillion  vice  is  nauseous  to  the  soul — and  drapery 
is  the  dread  device  of  the  Prince  of  the  Power  of  the 
Air. 

"  I'll  go  home,"  he  thought ;  and  he  started  across 
the  street. 

Then  he  looked  back,  as  Christian  turned  his  gaze 
upon  the  city  of  destruction,  contempt  gathering  as 
he  looked. 

"How  shall  I  get  back  to  Bedford  Square?"  he 
mused;  for  the  servitor's  additional  directions  had 
long  since  taken  flight.  Ah,  me !  If  informants 
such  as  he  could  but  point  the  further  paths  ! 

He  is  still  standing  undecided  on  the  pavement, 
when  a  cabman  draws  in  to  its  edge  and  casts  a  line. 

"  'Ave  a  little  drive  about,  sir  ?  'Orse  nice  and 
fresh ;  'aven't  'ad  but  three  fares  the  whole  bloomin' 
day,"  he  volunteered  in  a  pathetic  voice. 

"  Drive  where  ? "  said  Stephen.  "  I  want  to  go 
home." 

"  Oh.  All  right,  sir ;  I'll  drive  you  'ome — only  I 
thought  as  'ow  you  might  like  to  drive  about  a  bit 
an'  see  summat  of  the  town." 

"  I  understand,"  answered  Stephen — "  it's  pretty 
late." 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is — that's  wot  I  meant,  sir — 'tain't  no 


A  PEARL  of  PRICE  105 

use  goin'  w'en  they're  'arvin'  afternoon  tea — now  is 
it,  sir  ?  "  he  appealed,  chuckling  at  his  wit. 

"  When  who  are  ?     Where  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  anywheres  at  all.  Whitechapel's  right  hin- 
terestin'.  I  hoften  drives  Hamerican  gentlemen  down 
there  of  an  hevenin',"  said  the  cabman  beguilingly. 

"  Whitechapel ! "  echoed  Stephen.  "  I've  often 
heard  of  Whitechapel.  Wasn't  that  where  the  awful 
murders  were  ?  " 

"  Right  you  are,"  endorsed  the  other,  "  that's  the 
place  for  'em — that's  where  John  the  Surgeon  done 
some  stunts — most  Hamerican  gentlemen  likes  to  see 
his  hoperatin'  room." 

"  But  is  it  safe  ?  "  enquired  the  sightseer. 

«  Well — that  is,  certainly,  you're  safe  as  a  church 
along  o'  me.  Turrible  wickit  place — but  I'll  fetch 
you  back  right  as  a  trivet.  Never  'ad  no  haccident 
yet.  My  missus  has  a  huncle  on  the  force."  This 
last  was  intimated  with  the  air  of  one  who  held  the 
constabulary  of  London  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

"An  uncle  on  what?"  repeated  Stephen. 

"  On  the  force,  I  said — the  perlice  force,  don't  you 
know?  He's  a  peeler.  Better  fix  the  rug  round 
your  knees,  sir — Lunnon's  jolly  cold  at  night." 

The  night  was  undoubtedly  cool  enough,  but 
Stephen's  eager  curiosity,  spiced  with  a  sense  of  risk 
and  danger,  thrilled  him  with  a  sensation  he  had 
never  known  before.  It  was  like  one's  first  glimpse 
of  the  ocean.  Indeed,  this  very  metaphor  suggested 
itself  to  Stephen's  mind  as  the  hansom  rolled  quickly 
towards  Charing  Cross. 


io6  THE   UNDERTOW 

The  stately  steeple  of  St.  Martin's-in-the-Fields 
broke  into  melody  as  he  passed,  its  sweet  chime  float- 
ing down  to  him  through  the  midnight  air,  pure  and 
other-worldly  as  the  song  of  herald  angels  long  ago. 
Stephen  drank  in  the  delicious  notes,  his  mind  in- 
stinctively turning  to  that  of  which  they  spoke.  He 
wondered  what  church  it  was,  and  who  might  be  its 
minister.  "  I  should  love  to  be  a  London  minister," 
thought  Stephen ;  "  how  splendid  it  must  be,  in  this 
great  city,  to  be  a  soldier  righting  against  the  vice 
and  sin  that  abound  on  every  hand.  'Twould  call 
out  the  very  best  that's  in  a  man,"  he  mused,  con- 
trasting with  this  the  poor  stimulus  of  some  torpid 
country  parish.  But  he  would  endeavour,  he  thought, 
to  carry  to  his  field  of  labour,  wherever  it  might  be, 
the  inspiration  he  would  surely  gather  from  this  great 
human  ocean.  And  it  is  wise,  he  further  thought,  to 
see  it  in  all  its  phases — the  dark  as  well  as  the  light. 
For  what  is  more  useless  than  an  unsophisticated 
minister,  one  who  has  never  seen  the  shady  side,  and 
knows  nothing  of  the  dark  temptations  against  which 
some  people  have  to  fight?  How  could  a  man  fit- 
tingly rebuke  sin,  if  he  had  never  seen  it?  Mr. 
Shearer,  for  instance,  their  minister  at  home — sup- 
pose he  should  be  called  to  a  church  where  young 
men  were  wont  to  congregate,  how  could  his  sheltered 
life  and  innocent  inexperience  render  him  fit  to  point 
out  the  pitfalls,  or  to  denounce  the  sins,  that  beset  the 
feet,  and  attack  the  hearts,  of  youth  ? 

It  did  not  occur  to  him — for  the  carriage  wheels 
were  flying  fast  down  Fleet  Street's  easy  slope — that 


A  PEARL  of  PRICE  107 

a  mother-hen,  however  unfamiliar,  knows  when  the 
hawk  is  near,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts ;  nor  was  it 
borne  in  upon  him  that  the  starting  doe  will  recog- 
nize, trembling  as  it  hears,  the  baying  of  far-off 
hounds  never  heard  before.  Nor  did  he  recall,  what 
a  minister  surely  must  have  known,  that  it  was  a 
Lamb  without  spot  or  blemish  who  laid  bare,  as 
stainful  lips  have  never  done,  the  darkest  devisings 
of  the  human  heart. 

Across  Ludgate  Circus  and  up  Ludgate  Hill  he 
rode,  on  toward  the  Mansion  House  and  its  all 
gathering  vortex,  the  mighty  dome  of  England's 
noblest  vane  pouring  its  shadow  on  him  as  he  passed. 
Its  frown  was  all  unheeded ;  for  the  hansom  onward 
rolled,  Stephen  already  looking  eagerly  for  the  first 
sign  of  the  dread  locality  whose  darksome  deeds  had 
often  mingled  with  his  youthful  dreams. 

It  was  not  long  till  the  locality  was  reached.  The 
shabby  houses,  the  noxious  odours,  the  protruding 
substitutes  for  panes,  the  plaintive  cries  of  neglected 
children,  the  aroma  of  cheap  liquors,  the  echo  of 
drunken  laughter — all  these  defined  the  neighbour- 
hood they  had  reached.  Staggerers  passed  them  in 
groups  of  two  or  three,  each  seeking  to  aid  the  other, 
all  equally  eligible  to  assistance. 

The  cabby  has  slowed  his  horse  to  a  walk,  the 
better  to  enable  Stephen  to  prosecute  his  studies. 

The  little  window  above  the  latter's  head  is  sud- 
denly uplifted  : — "  Tumble  spot  this,  sir — lots  o'  fel- 
lows has  catched  it  'ere,  sir — halright,  sir,  don't  be 
honeasy — I'll  look  arter  you." 


io8  THE    UNDERTOW 

The  window  closes  again,  Stephen  peering  cau- 
tiously out  to  see  the  desperadoes.  Everything 
seems  quiet  enough.  An  unhappy  child  of  fourteen 
or  so  is  helping  her  mother  home,  the  latter  carrying 
a  can  as  carefully  as  her  condition  will  permit.  But 
Stephen  can  discern  no  peril  there. 

They  pass  into  another  street,  kindred  to  the  one 
they  have  left  behind.  Suddenly  the  window  goes 
up  again : — "  This  'ere's  what  they  call '  The  Bloody 
'Ole,'  sir — 'orful  place,  sir.  That  'ere  last  one  I 
showed  you  was  a  little  Sunday-school,  sir,  alongside 
o'  this.  That's  halright,  sir — don't  be  honeasy.  I've 
got  my  heye  hout  for  'em,  sir — we'll  soon  be  hout 
of  it." 

Stephen  looked  eagerly  again,  this  time  leaning 
forward  a  little,  his  fears  less  vivid  than  before.  He 
sees  nothing  but  an  almost  deserted  street,  sunk  in 
the  same  sodden  wretchedness  as  the  other ;  but  with 
no  signs  of  recent  or  impending  slaughter. 

They  have  not  gone  far  when  he  hears  the  window 
lifted  again;  and  a  sepulchral  voice  calls  down: — 
"  Set  in  the  middle  o'  the  seat,  sir,  right  in  the  middle 
— that's  it — it's  the  safest  place  there.  See  how  that 
'orse's  ears  is  cocked,  an'  'is  tail  agoin'  of  itself,  sir  ? 
That's  halright,  sir,  I'll  look  arter  you,  sir.  Don't  be 
honeasy — only  my  missus'  huncle  very  near  shot  ten 
men  right  'ere,  wonst,  sir." 

This  time  Stephen  thrust  his  head  boldly  out,  even 
venturing  to  disturb  the  equilibrium  on  which  so 
much  depended.  A  man  was  plodding  unsteadily 
along  the  street,  carrying  in  his  arms  a  spaniel  dog ; 


A  PEARL  of  PRICE  109 

the  animal  appeared  unappreciative  of  the  honour, 
and  the  man's  progress  seemed  impeded  not  more 
by  the  outward  burden  than  by  the  inward  cargo. 
The  man  in  the  hansom  was  beginning  to  despise 
Whitechapel.  "  I  want  to  see  a  storm,"  the  swift- 
retiring  say  when  they  first  go  to  sea.  But  the  upper 
air  was  troubled  enough;  for  the  wooden  flap  is 
raised  again. 

"  'Ang  on  to  your  watch  'ere,  sir.  And  you  better 
put  your  money  and  your  wallyables  inside  your 
shirt,  sir.  This  'ere's  the  worsest  place  in  Lunnon, 
sir.  That's  halright — don't  be  honeasy ! " 

By  this  time  Stephen  was  finding  it  easy  enough 
to  obey  the  familiar  admonition,  and,  tiring  of  the 
experience,  he  abruptly  ordered  the  cabman  to  drive 
him  home  by  way  of  Holborn.  The  man  was  noth- 
ing loath,  and  soon  Stephen  was  looking  out  upon  a 
region  much  superior  to  that  which  the  driver's  fancy 
had  peopled  with  its  divers  perils.  Suddenly  the 
hansom  drew  up  to  the  pavement,  coming  to  a  stand- 
still. Wondering  what  this  variation  meant,  he  heard 
the  driver  alight ;  in  a  moment  his  ruddy  face  was 
presented  at  the  window. 

"  You  don't  mind  a  man  'avin'  a  beer,  sir  ? "  he 
enquired  earnestly.  "  This  'ere's  a  place  what's  al- 
ways hopen  if  you  knows  'ow  to  get  in." 

Stephen  had  no  objections,  though  rigid  teetotal- 
ism  was  his  doctrine  and  his  rule. 

"  All  right !  But  I  think  you'd  be  better  without 
it,"  he  answered. 

"  That's  halright,"  rejoined  the  cabby ;  "  used  to 


no  THE   UNDERTOW 

belong  to  the  Band  of  'Ope  myself.  But  a  man 
knows  'is  own  insides  best,  sir;  and  I've  'ad  a  hawful 
.strain.  Look  at  that  'orse's  'ead  and  tail,  sir — a  man 
takes  'is  life  in  'is  'and,  when  he  drives  that  'ere  last 
street,  he  do." 

"  It  was  kind  of  you,"  said  Stephen,  thinking  he 
.should  make  some  acknowledgment  to  the  hero. 

"  I  never  does  it,  only  for  Hamericans,"  the  cabby 
went  on,  "  and  they  always  gives  me  the  price  of  a 
beer,  sir — always  does  it  'andsome,  too,  sir." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  agreed  the  pilot.  Wherewith  the  former 
•put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  extracting  a  threepenny 
bit  which  he  handed  to  the  other.  The  other  looked 
slightly  disappointed. 

"  You  won't  be  long,"  called  Stephen,  as  the  man 
turned  towards  a  lane. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  cabman  in  a  dejected  voice ; 
"  I  shan't  be  long,  sir.  You  seen  wot  you  guv  me, 
sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen. 

"  I  seen  it,  too,"  said  the  cabman, "  and  I  shan't  be 
long,  sir — don't  be  honeasy." 

Thus  left  alone,  Stephen  looked  about  him  at  the 
almost  silent  street.  Cramped  with  long  sitting,  and 
weary  with  the  intentness  of  his  vigil,  he  stepped 
down  from  the  hansom  to  the  pavement,  moving 
about  for  the  relief  of  his  tired  limbs. 

Suddenly  a  woman's  figure  glided  around  the 
corner  of  an  adjacent  street  and  began  moving  slowly 
toward  him.  Stephen  stared  at  her ;  and  she  came 


A  PEARL  of  PRICE  in 

on,  till  she  was  almost  opposite.  Then  she  paused 
and  turned  her  face  toward  his. 

"  Could  you  help  me,  sir  ?  "  she  began  in  a  trem- 
bling voice.  "  I'm  all  alone — and  helpless — and  I'm 
hungry." 

"  What  ?  "  said  Stephen,  scanning  the  face  before 
him. 

"  I'm  all  alone — and  I've  had  such  a  bitter  day. 
And  I  have  to  ask  somebody — I  haven't  any  home — 
now.  And  I  knew  I'd  have  to  ask — and  trust — 
some  one,"  and  even  as  she  spoke,  the  gentle  figure 
straightened  itself  with  a  kind  of  despairing  dignity 
that  stamped  her  words  with  truth  and  pathos. 

Stephen  was  still  gazing  into  the  pleading  eyes, 
something  in  their  expression  engaging  him  with  no 
common  interest. 

"  I'm  so  ashamed,  sir,"  the  girl  went  on,  her  eyes 
dropping  before  his  own — "  but  I've  not  had  any- 
thing since  eleven  o'clock  this  morning." 

The  voice  which  spoke  the  words  was  worthy  of 
the  face  that  was  now  timidly  turned  away.  Stephen 
was  still  intent  upon  his  scrutiny. 

The  girl  was  perhaps  twenty-two  or  twenty-three, 
but  sorrow  had  left  its  mark  more  distinctly  than  the 
years.  The  face  was  hungry,  but  not  pinched — and 
the  hunger  was  evidently  not  that  of  mere  want 
alone.  For  her  face  bore  the  signs  of  a  tender  spirit, 
and  a  rich  spiritual  beauty  rested  on  it.  The  very 
fragrance  of  a  sweet  and  tender  nature,  over-trustful, 
perhaps,  but  due  to  unstained  innocence,  seemed  to 
come  from  the  half-parted,  trembling  lips.  Her 


H2  THE    UNDERTOW 

mouth  was  significant  of  purity,  her  eyes  soft  and 
docile.  Yet,  as  a  light  fell  upon  them,  something  of 
sorrow  seemed  to  burn  within,  as  if  some  great  sur- 
prise had  touched  their  laughter  with  eternal  serious- 
ness. 

Her  neck  was  surrounded  by  a  strong  slender 
chain  of  steel — and  Stephen  noted  in  amazement  that 
this  ended  in  a  tiny  brazen  cross,  almost  hidden  by  a 
piece  of  faded  lace. 

"  Where  do  you  live?  "  asked  Stephen. 

"  Nobody  cares  where  I  live — don't  let's  speak 
about  that,"  she  retorted  quickly ; "  won't  you  help 
me  a  little — just  a  very  little  ?  I'm  so  unhappy." 

"  How  do  you  come  to  have  that  cross  there  ?  " 
he  asked ;  "  won't  you  tell  me  why  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  down  at  it,  then  lifted  her  eyes 
quickly,  and  answered : — "  It  would  be  hard  for  me 
to  tell  you — I've  not  told  anybody  yet ; "  and  Stephen 
could  not  but  notice  a  tremour  in  her  voice  that 
spoke  of  an  emotion  he  was  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand. 

At  this  juncture  they  were  interrupted  by  the 
returning  cabman,  his  gait  suggesting  that  he  had 
invested  the  threepenny  bit  to  fine  advantage. 

"  I  met  an  old  pard  in  there,"  he  explained,  "  a 
pard  I  'adn't  seen  since  Dizzy  died,"  his  mind  revert- 
ing to  the  great  obsequies  they  had  observed  to- 
gether. 

"  Lord !  You've  run  acrost  one  yourself !  "  he 
exclaimed,  his  eye  falling  on  the  girl. 

"  I've  never  met  this  lady  before,"  Stephen  made 


A  PEARL  of  PRICE  113 

haste  to  avow.  "  But  I'm  not  going  farther  with 
you,"  he  continued,  "  I'm  not  going  on — I  have — 
that  is,  I've  a  duty  to  attend  to,"  he  concluded,  not 
without  embarrassment. 

"  Halright,  I  understand  you,  sir,"  replied  the 
cabby  gravely.  "  Hawful  glad  I  was  of  'elp  to  a 
gent,  a-doin'  of  his  dooty."  The  significance  of  his 
voice  could  not  be  misunderstood. 

"  I  would  have  you  know,  sir,  I'm  a  minister," 
Stephen  affirmed  in  a  heightened  tone — "  I've  a  duty 
to  perform — here." 

"  Oh,  Lord ! "  broke  out  the  cabman ;  "  Jerry,  do 
you  hear  that  ?  "  he  cried,  turning  toward  the  horse 
and  snatching  the  light  blanket  from  its  back. 

"  How  much  do  I  owe  you  ? "  Stephen  asked 
sternly ;  "  I'll  settle  with  you  now." 

"  No  time  like  the  present,"  replied  the  cabby. 
"  But  I  does  'ate  to  take  five  bob  off  a  poor  parson — 
it  'urts  me  more  nor  you." 

"  Five  what  ? "  said  Stephen,  confused  by  the 
nomenclature. 

"  Five  bob !     Five  shillin' — I've  hearned  it,  too." 

"  Oh,  five  shillings,  you  mean,  do  you  ?  "  said  his 
now  enlightened  fare ;  "  all  right,"  and  Stephen  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  wallet  that  contained  his  father's 
noble  gift,  now  converted  into  Bank  of  England 
notes.  "  I've  got  some  change  here  somewhere,"  he 
muttered,  fumbling  among  the  rustling  bills. 

"  The  deacons  must  'a'  paid  you  up  the  salary  just 
afore  you  told  'em  bye-bye,"  suggested  the  cabman, 
denoting  the  purse  with  one  eye,  the  other  reserved 


H4  THE   UNDERTOW 

for  a  fitting  operation  toward  the  girl.  "  Must 
be  hawful  devoted  to  their  pastor,"  he  added,  repeating 
the  aforesaid  ocular  operation. 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  the  passenger  at  last.  "  That's 
five — isn't  that  right  ?  " 

"  Halright ;  thank'ee  sir — and  I'll  leave  you  to 
your  dooty.  Won't  be  preachin'  in  the  Habbey  next 
Sunday,  will  you,  sir  ?  "  which  was  too  near  the  high 
water  mark  of  humour  to  permit  of  further  control. 
The  cabby  abandoned  himself  for  a  minute  to  the 
hilarity  he  felt  had  been  too  long  delayed ;  and  noth- 
ing but  the  honesty  of  Stephen's  purpose  could  have 
saved  Stephen  from  its  sting. 


X 

ITS  CASKET  for  A  NIGHT 

AS  Stephen  turned  to  the  girl  beside  him,  the 
look  with  which  he  regarded  her  was  not 
without  genuine  pity.  He  was  interested, 
moreover,  from  the  standpoint  of  his  profession. 
Here  is  the  first  fruit  of  my  search,  he  thought ;  and 
here  a  golden  opportunity  to  uplift  the  fallen,  joining 
in  this  far-pitched  battle  against  London's  sin  and 
sorrow.  He  even  thought  of  the  rich  effectiveness  of 
such  an  incident,  used  as  an  illustration  in  some  ser- 
mon yet  unborn.  For  no  theme  is  so  enthralling  as 
that  of  the  prodigal,  whom  preachers  so  often  seek 
afield,  going  forth  from  Newcastle  in  their  search  for 
coals. 

"  Where  can  we  get  something  to  eat  ?  "  he  asked 
as  he  turned  to  her.  "  I  will  go  with  you." 

"  I  noticed  a  place  one  street  over  from  here,"  the 
girl  replied,  her  thought  making  a  quick  review 
that  only  hunger  could  command,  "  and  I  fancy  it's 
open  all  night.  We  could  go  back  there.  But  why 
do  you  go  too?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  later,"  Stephen  replied.  "  Let  us 
go  at  once." 

They  retraced  their  steps,  Stephen  trusting  himself 
to  the  guidance  of  the  girl.  She  walked  with  uncon- 
scious haste ;  for  a  pathetic  stimulus  urged  her  on. 

"5 


Ii6  THE   UNDERTOW 

He  could  not  but  mark  the  plaintive  candour  of  her 
eager  pace;  and  pity  gathered  in  his  heart.  Her 
carriage  was  erect  and  graceful,  her  hair,  disheveled 
somewhat,  showed  golden  and  wavy  in  the  uncertain 
light,  the  silken  strands  wandering  over  ear  and 
cheek  and  neck,  all  blending  in  a  contour  of  strangely 
delicate  loveliness  and  charm. 

"  Aren't  you  ashamed  too  ?  "  The  words  broke  in 
upon  his  silent  observations. 

"  Ashamed  ?  Ashamed  of  what  ?  "  asked  her 
companion,  remarking  again  the  refinement  of  her 
voice,  "  ashamed  of  what  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  made  you  tell  the  cabby  such  a 
story  ?  "  the  girl  returned. 

Stephen  started.  He  had  forgotten.  "  Me !  A 
story  to  the  cabman  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean — I  didn't  tell  him  any  story." 

"  No,"  she  amended,  "  it  wasn't  exactly  a  story — 
it  was  a  whopper " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Stephen  renewed,  a  little 
testily ;  for  philanthropy  knows  its  rights. 

"  You  told  him  you  were  a  preacher — why  didn't 

you  tell  him  something  he'd  believe Here  we 

are — that's  the  place  I  saw — and  there's  a  light  in  it 
yet,"  she  concluded  rapidly,  the  moral  swallowed  up 
of  the  material. 

They  pushed  back  the  already  half  opened  door 
and  entered  the  poor  refectory.  One  or  two  belated 
ones,  just  preparing  to  depart,  were  concluding  their 
repast,  eking  out  the  scanty  fare  to  the  uttermost 
moment.  Stephen  led  his  companion  to  a  table  in  a 


ITS  CASKET  for  A  NIGHT        117 

corner  of  the  room  and  the  agile  waiter  had  soon 
departed  with  an  order  for  a  large  double  steak,  a  six- 
pence from  Stephen's  hand  accounting  for  the  cheer- 
ful speed  that  marked  his  exit. 

Stephen  was  still  thinking  of  the  girl's  last  words 
and  their  soft  impeachment. 

"  But  I'm  just  what  I  said  I  was,"  he  resumed 
when  they  were  seated. 

The  other  looked  earnestly  at  him,  the  sweetness  of 
her  expression  in  this  clearer  light  striking  Stephen 
with  surprise. 

"  I  told  him  the  truth,"  urged  Stephen.  "  I  told 
him  I  was  a  minister — and  I  am.  You  needn't  smile 
— I  am  a  minister." 

The  face  that  looked  across  at  him  was  serious 
enough.  "  Do  you  know  I  believe  you — at  least  I 
almost  believe  you.  Are  you  really  a  minister,  sure 
enough  ?  "  she  enquired  earnestly. 

For  answer,  Stephen  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket 
and  threw  it  down  before  her.  It  was  one  of  the 
few  that  had  been  entrusted  to  him  for  purposes  of 
introduction. 

" '  Reverend  Stephen  Wishart,  M.  A./  "  the  girl 
read  aloud,  evidently  impressed. 

"  You  may  look  at  the  letter,"  said  Stephen  with  a 
glance  toward  it.  She  took  the  missive  out  and 
read  it  through.  It  was  to  a  Scottish  friend,  the 
credential  again  in  evidence. 

Then  she  restored  her  attention  to  the  envelope, 
reading  the  address  over  once  or  twice.  " '  M.  A./ 
I  know  what  that  means,"  she  reflected  presently. 


n8  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Do  you  ?  "  answered  Stephen  smiling.  "  What 
does  it  mean,  then  ?  " 

" '  Master  of  Arts/  "  the  girl  responded  quickly, 
Stephen  wondering  at  the  sound.  "  Our  minister 
was  an  M.  A.,"  she  pursued,  Stephen's  eyes  wider 
than  before. 

"  Your  minister  ! "  he  exclaimed,  gazing  at  the 
girl  and  trying  to  realize  the  place  and  method  of 
their  meeting. 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  other  ;  "  he  got  his  at  Aber- 
deen— he  was  our  minister  before  I  was  born.  He 
married  my  father  and  mother,"  she  concluded,  her 
lips  all  a  quiver. 

"  Here's  the  waiter  at  last,"  announced  Stephen, 
blithely  assisting  in  the  distribution  of  the  homely 
dishes.  He  dropped  a  fork  beside  her  chair ;  she 
stooped  to  recover  it  and  he  slipped  a  portion  of  his 
order  on  to  her  plate.  Then  he  led  the  attack,  bid- 
ding his  companion  follow ;  which  she  did  right 
heartily,  yet  with  a  modesty  that  explained  the  embar- 
rassment of  her  downcast  eyes. 

She  had  spread  upon  her  lap  a  dainty  handker- 
chief, sorely  stained,  it  must  be  said — but  he  marked 
the  refinement  of  the  action. 

He  was  wondering  how  he  might  best  renew  the 
conversation,  when  the  voice  of  the  other  suddenly 
relieved  him  of  that  necessity. 

"  That  was  a  whopper  after  all,"  she  said,  as  she 
looked  up,  the  eyes  glistening  through  the  dew. 

"  What  was  a  whopper  ?  What  have  you  discov- 
ered now  ?  " 


ITS  CASKET  for  A   NIGHT        119 

"  About  what  you  told  the  cabby.  You  said  you 
were  a  minister — and  you  didn't  ask  a  blessing,"  she 
charged. 

"  I  asked  it  inside,"  said  Stephen ;  "  they'd  think 
you  were  ill  if  they  saw  you  asking  it  here  any  other 
way,  I  should  think — though  I  was  never  in  a  place 
like  this  before.  But  now  let  me  cross-question  you 
— you  said  your  minister  was  an  M.  A.,  didn't 
you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  said  he  got  it  in  Aberdeen,"  she  replied 
seriously. 

"  Well  then,  what  church  does  he  belong  to  ? 
Which  is  your  church  ?  "  for  the  vein  struck  him  as 
foreign  and  fascinating. 

"  It's  the  Church  of  Scotland,"  the  girl  answered 
promptly. 

"  Isn't  that  strange,  that's  mine,  too.  But  how  do 
I  know  you  are  not  telling  me  a  whopper,  as  you  call 
it  ?  Let  me  see — I  can  tell  by  a  question.  Now, 
you  tell  me  something — what  do  they  call  the  men 
in  the  session  ?  Their  office,  I  mean  ?  " 

The  big  eyes  stared  at  him  for  a  minute : — "  Oh, 
you  mean  the  Kirk  Session — why,  they're  elders,  of 
course.  My  father  was  one." 

"  Good,  very  good — now  I'm  going  to  ask  just  one 
more  question,"  pursued  her  examiner ;  "  perhaps 
it's  a  little  harder  than  the  other — how  does  the 
eighty-fourth  psalm  run  ?  That's  a  sure  sign,  if  you 
can  tell  that." 

She  pondered  a  moment : — "  I've  learned  them 
nearly  all — we  had  to  learn  them  on  Sunday  after- 


120  THE    UNDERTOW 

noons,"  she  mused.     "  I  can't  just  remember  how 
that  one  begins.     But  I  think  it  has  this  in  it : 


1  Behold  the  sparrow  findeth  out 
An  house  wherein  to  rest ' — 


I  thought  of  it  to-night  when  I  was  walking 
around,"  she  added  in  a  voice  he  could  barely  hear, 
her  eyes  hidden  from  him  as  her  head  bowed  till  it 
rested  on  the  heaving  bosom,  while  scarlet  clothed 
her  cheek  : — "  Oh,  sir,  my  heart  is  broken,"  she  cried 
at  length,  after  a  brief  wild  struggle  for  control.  "  I 
don't  want  to  eat  any  more,"  she  sobbed,  the  tears  flow- 
ing fast  now,  unstaunched  by  the  poor  handkerchief 
she  had  lifted  from  her  lap.  "  Let  us  go  out,"  she 
sobbed, "  I  can't  stop  crying — and  that  man's  look- 
ing at  me ;  "  which  very  feminine  complaint  was 
accompanied  by  a  furious  glance  at  the  petrified 
waiter,  transfixed  beside  his  green  baize  door. 

"  All  right,"  whispered  Stephen.  "  You  go  on — 
wait  for  me  at  the  door."  He  hurriedly  paid  his  bill, 
the  recovering  waiter  asking  innocently :  "  Is  your 
missis  sick,  sir  ?  "  for  he  knew  they  were  not  of  the 
usual  class  he  was  wont  to  serve  at  that  hour. 

Stephen  made  some  unintelligible  answer,  moving 
quickly  toward  the  door  through  which  his  compan- 
ion had  disappeared ;  but  she  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen,  and  Stephen's  heart  leaped  with  a  strange  eager- 
ness to  find  her.  He  called  out  some  word  of  gen- 
eral salutation — for  he  did  not  know  her  name. 
Answer  there  was  none.  Then  he  ran  quickly  down 


ITS  CASKET  for  A   NIGHT       121 

a  near-by  street,  but  his  search  was  unrewarded. 
Returning  slowly,  he  peered  into  an  alley  ;  and  the 
brightly  burning  light,  London's  great  custodian, 
revealed  to  him  what  he  knew  at  once  to  be  the 
skirt  of  a  woman's  dress.  Hurrying  forward,  he 
found  the  companion  of  his  humble  meal  seated  on  a 
step,  still  sobbing  violently. 

"  Go  away,  oh,  please  go  away,"  she  moaned,  as 
Stephen  spoke  to  her. 

"  I  won't — I  shan't  leave  you  like  this — where  are 
you  going  to  sleep  to-night  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  sobbed,  "  I  don't  know — and 
it  doesn't  matter — only  please  go  away." 

Suddenly  a  shadow  darkened  the  entrance  to  the 
alley  and  a  burly  form  loomed  above  them. 

"  What's  the  matter  here  ?  "  and  the  policeman's 
voice  was  stern — "  have  to  move  out  of  this,  and 
quick  about  it." 

The  girl  leaped  quickly  to  her  feet.  "  Sit  down," 
Stephen  said  in  an  undertone  ;  "  stay  where  you  are 
— I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

He  motioned  the  officer  aside  and  a  few  moments 
sufficed  to  tell  the  story. 

"  Likely  some  poor  girl  from  the  country,"  the  po- 
liceman ventured,  heart-tender  as  are  nearly  all  his 
kind  ;  "  likely  enough  a  thoroughly  innocent  girl, 
too,"  he  pursued.  "  No,  sir,  there's  no  hotel  just 
round  about  here.  I'll  tell  you  what  you  do.  There's 
an  Army  Home  on  Parrot  Street — there's  a  drinking 
fountain  three  minutes  this  side  of  it.  She  can  stay 
there  for  the  night — comfortable  enough,  too." 


122  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  But  won't  she  have  to  mix — I  mean,  aren't 
all "  Stephen  queried,  deprecatingly. 

"  Oh,  no,  bless  you — no,  not  at  all.  They've  beds 
there  up  to  six-pence — mebbe  a  shilling.  Lots  of 
the  best  take  'em.  You  pay  it.  That'll  mean  a  bite 
of  breakfast,  too.  The  very  best  thing  you  can  do — 
try  and  get  her  to  go  there.  And  I'll  just  go  on." 

"  How  shall  we  get  there  ?  "  urged  Stephen,  anx- 
iously ;  "  I  don't  know  anything  of  the  locations 
here." 

"  Oh,  simple  enough.  See  that  light  there  ?  Well, 
go  down  to  that,  turn  to  the  right  for  two  squares, 
then  turn  to  the  left,  and  it's  the  third  corner  on  the 
right — you'll  find  it  easy  enough.  Good-night,  sir." 

The  gust  of  anguish  seemed  to  have  subsided  when 
Stephen  returned  to  his  companion,  and  she  was  per- 
suaded without  serious  difficulty  to  follow  the  course 
commended  by  the  officer.  They  walked  on  in 
silence  for  a  time. 

"  I  hope  to  see  you  again,"  Stephen  said  at  length  ; 
"  you're  to  tell  me  yet  where  your  home  is,  and  all 
about  everything  like  that,  you  know." 

No  answer  coming,  he  presently  renewed  : — "  You 
will  tell  me  all  about  it,  won't  you  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  searching  eyes  ; — "  I'll 
tell  you  everything,  I  think,"  she  said  quietly  after  a 
moment,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  everything." 

"  Here's  the  place.  I  guess  this  is  where  you  ring. 
Wait  a  minute — what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Hattie,"  she  answered. 

"  Hattie  who  ?  " 


ITS  CASKET  for  A   NIGHT        123 

"  Hattie  Hastie.  I  suppose  they  thought  it 
sounded  pretty  when  they  gave  it  to  me." 

"  It  is  a  pretty  name — and  I  want  to  see  you 
again.  And  you  may  expect  me  to  come  here  to- 
morrow morning  about  ten  o'clock.  Promise  me  you 
will  wait  till  1  come." 

Hattie  Hastie  blushed ;  and  the  rosy  banner  was 
well  pleasing  to  Stephen's  eye  :  for  is  not  the  blush  of 
maidenhood  the  signal  that  God's  sentinels  still  hold 
the  inner  fort  ? 

"  Promise  me,  promise  me  quick, — here's  the  at- 
tendant coming." 

The  girl  suddenly  raised  her  eyes,  swimming  in 
the  light  as  they  were ;  and  a  rich  aroma  distilled 
through  the  lips  that  spoke  : — "  I  will  wait  for  you — 
oh,  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Wishart — it  was  He  who  sent 
you ;  it  was  my  mother's  God,"  and  the  wonderful 
eyes,  radiant  with  tears,  looked  up  to  his  in  childlike 
trust  and  innocence,  the  man  quivering  with  emotion 
as  with  a  few  earnest  words  he  committed  his  new- 
found charge  to  the  kindly  warder  who  now  stood 
before  them. 


XI 
HATriE  And  The  COMMANDER 

HATTIE  HASTIE  was  asked  no  questions  by 
the  attendant  at  the  Army  Home.  And 
very  clean  and  comfortable  was  the  little 
bed  to  which  she  was  guided  by  the  kindly  matron, 
called  from  welcome  slumber  to  duty  more  welcome 
still.  The  apartment  was  comparatively  small,  some 
eight  or  ten  beds  being  beside  her  own.  All  their 
inmates  were  evidently  lost  in  sleep — that  truest 
friend  of  the  homeless  and  forlorn.  Hattie  undressed 
quickly;  and  was  soon  stretched  between  the  re- 
freshing sheets,  giving  herself  up  to  a  review  of  the 
eventful  day.  A  quick  gush  of  tears  bedewed  her 
pillow,  the  fruit  of  an  emotion  the  girl  could  scarcely 
understand. 

For  a  strange  sense  of  humiliation  and  shame 
mingled  with  a  still  more  mysterious  strain  of  joy ; 
and  of  this  latter  she  could  not  locate  the  source. 
Yet  she  abandoned  herself  to  it  willingly  enough ;  for 
something  like  the  gladness  of  the  spring  was  about 
her  heart.  The  magic  sweetness  that  clothes  life  in 
the  hour  of  one's  convalescence  seemed  to  have  come 
to  her. 

With  quick  bounds,  her  mind  flew  from  scene  to 
scene,  covering  the  whole  compass  of  her  life.  Aber- 
deen and  its  golden  twilight  days;  the  removal  to 

124 


H ATT  IE  And  The  COMMANDER        125 

their  English  home ;  the  unruffled  happiness  of  open- 
ing girlhood ;  the  gathering  clouds  ;  the  wasting  of 
her  father's  health ;  the  wail  of  her  widowed  mother ; 
the  bailiff-hand  of  poverty — from  one  to  the  other, 
her  mind  flitted,  as  she  lay  among  the  homeless,  gath- 
ering the  bitter  and  the  sweet. 

Then  it  lingered  longer  amid  darker  memories — 
her  mother's  brush  with  death ;  her  recovery ;  her 
wounded  health  that  soon  surrendered ;  her  dying 
prayer  and  her  child's  passionate  promise,  as  dying 
hands  tied  the  little  cross  about  her  neck — then  the 
sombre  tunnel  of  her  orphanhood. 

Scenes  darker  still  were  visited  on  memory's  wing 
— her  dower  of  unconscious  charm ;  its  recognition 
by  another  who  forgot  that  she  was  but  a  child,  and 
pressed  his  claim  with  the  approval  of  her  guardian 
aunt ;  her  first  response  of  love,  slighted  as  soon  as  it 
was  won ;  her  aunt's  increasing  severity ;  and  her 
own  worse  than  homeless  state. 

Then,  darker  still,  the  sympathy  of  an  almost  un- 
known girl  who  had  prompted  her  to  flight ;  and  her 
half  surrender  to  her  companion's  plea  for  London  as 
a  city  of  refuge  from  her  cruel  lot.  Her  heart  burned 
within,  her  as  she  recalled  the  letters  that  had  come 
from  the  older  girl  who  had  gone  on  before  to  the 
great  metropolis.  Their  deepening  tinge  of  colour, 
their  lavish  promise  of  relief,  and  pleasure,  and  success 
— all  so  intelligible  in  the  light  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, but  so  misunderstood  as  she  had  read  them 
amid  the  pure  fragrance  of  her  country  life — of  all 
this  she  thought. 


126  THE    UNDERTOW 

And  Hattie's  face  burned  like  fire  as  she  recalled 
the  innocent  joy,  the  simple  hopefulness,  with  which 
she  had  set  out  for  London.  Like  molten  gold  it 
glowed,  as  she  recalled  their  meeting  ;  the  momentary 
shock  as  she  read  her  companion's  face — the  Gehenna 
of  her  words  and  their  dread  suggestion.  Again  an 
indescribable  face  seemed  to  look  out  at  her  through 
some  shadowy  lattice ;  and  the  mal-aroma  of  some 
deadly  nightshade  seemed  again  to  smite  her  to  the 
heart. 

Then  her  mind  leaped  swiftly  on,  as  if  seeking 
shelter  from  some  phantom  enemy  ;  and  the  lights  of 
home — and  the  locking  of  a  mighty  door — were 
somehow  commingled  with  the  tender  face  which  she 
had  last  looked  upon  in  the  dark  without ;  she  con- 
fused her  mother's  voice  with  the  tones  that  had 
called  her  so  tenderly  by  her  childhood  name.  And 
the  memory  of  her  mother's  parting  kiss — sacra- 
mental though  it  was — blended  with  a  different  image ; 
wherewith  sweet  drowsiness  stole  about  her.  Then 
she  surrendered  her  soul  to  God  in  a  half  uttered 
prayer  that  lost  itself  in  the  blessed  ocean  of  a  dream- 
less sleep. 

When  the  girl  had  finished  her  simple  breakfast 
next  morning,  the  matron  took  her  into  a  private 
room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  I've  got  good  news  for  you,"  she  began,  still 
standing  with  her  back  to  the  door.  "  I  knew,  as 
soon  as  I  saw  you  last  night — that  you  were  different, 
so  different  from  those  that  usually  come  in.  And 


HAT-TIE  And  The  COMMANDER        127 

I've  been  telling  all  about  you  to  the  Commander 
— she  happened  to  come  down  here  this  morning." 

She  stopped,  smiling ;  for  reverence  was  meant  to 
mark  the  name.  "  The  Commander  wants  to  see  you 
herself,"  she  continued  radiantly,  mentioning  the 
name  of  one  of  London's  guardian  angels,  a  near 
relative  of  the  great  Administrator  whose  fame  has 
filled  the  earth  as  one  of  the  most  consecrated  war- 
riors that  ever  buckled  on  his  armour.  "  She's  going 
to  see  you  herself — and  you  can  trust  her  as  you 
would  your  own  mother.  You'll  love  her  as  soon  as 
you  see  her — everybody  does.  Come,  I'm  going  to 
take  you  to  her  now." 

Hattie  followed  her  guide,  and  was  soon  shown 
into  an  inner  room,  her  eyes  falling,  as  she  entered, 
upon  one  of  the  most  gracious  and  winsome  faces 
that  ever  shone  with  love's  mystic  light.  Her  heart 
seemed  to  leap  toward  the  woman  as  she  noticed  the 
compassion  of  her  eyes  and  the  simple  sweetness  of 
her  whole  appearance.  She  was  tastily  attired,  al- 
most richly  it  would  seem,  though  the  credentials  of 
her  office  could  be  seen  upon  her  dress.  But,  robed 
though  she  had  been  as  an  oriental  princess,  the  eager 
compassion  of  her  soul  would  still  have  been  easily 
perceived;  her  whole  womanhood  seemed  touched 
with  the  redemptive  pity  that  looked  out  from  great 
lustrous  eyes  upon  the  homeless  girl  before  her. 

Like  one  who  had  found  something  she  had  long 
sought  in  vain,  she  rose  and  came  quickly  toward 
the  stranger. 

"  Come  away,  come  away  in,"  she  said,  as  if  she 


128  THE    UNDERTOW 

were  speaking  to  some  friend  for  whom  she  had  been 
waiting.  "  Mrs.  Yuill  here  has  been  telling  me  about 
you,"  and,  leading  her  to  a  couch,  she  sat  down 
beside  her,  taking  Hattie's  hands  in  hers.  This  tender- 
ness, long  familiar  from  hands  that  are  hidden  now, 
seemed  to  awaken  fountains  of  memory  in  the  wan- 
derer, who  laid  her  tear-stained  face  on  the  willing 
bosom  of  her  new-found  friend. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  my  dear  ?  "  the  latter  said 
after  a  time.  "  Won't  you  tell  me  as  much  as  you 
can  about  yourself?" 

"  Oh,"  sobbed  Hattie,  "  you're  so  good  to  me — and 
I  don't  know  where  I'm  going." 

"  Can't  you  go  home,  child  ?  Or  have  you  no 
home  ?  " 

"  No,  none,"  said  Hattie,  the  blue  eyes  raised  to 
look  out  of  the  window  a  moment — away  past  the 
chimney  pots  of  the  houses  about  her.  She  was 
thinking  of  the  honeysuckle  on  the  porch  of  what 
had  once  been  home;  and  her  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  direction  in  which  she  thought  it  lay. 

A  graceful  arm  had  stolen  gently  around  the  girl's 
shoulders  :  "  Tell  me  about  your  home."  Whereupon 
the  reverie  of  the  night  became  the  narrative  of  the 
day. 

"  I  know  I  can  trust  you,"  Hattie  said ;  "  and  I 
think  it  will  help  me  to  tell  somebody,  any  way." 
And,  beginning  with  the  bright  and  happy  morning 
of  her  life,  she  told  the  hours,  one  by  one,  keeping 
back  nothing  that  bore  on  all  the  sad  heart-story. 

"  And  that  was  how  I  came  to  come  to  London," 


H ATT  IE  And  The  COMMANDER        129 

she  concluded,  bolt  upright  now,  turning  around  and 
looking  at  the  other  with  eyes  that  were  aflame: 
"  that  was  how  I  came  here — she  deceived  me.  She 
told  me  I  could  get  lots  of  money  and  pretty  clothes 
in  London — and  I  was  so  poor.  And  I  thought  I 
would  get  a  good  home  here !  Oh,  I  really  thought 
I  would  die  when  I  found  out  what  it  all  meant — it 
was  awful,  awful " — and  the  silken  tresses  drooped 
again,  the  face,  hiding  like  a  hunted  thing,  close  to 
the  woman's  loving  heart. 

"  And  the  girl  who  induced  you  to  come  ?  "  asked 
her  protector,  "  where  is  she  ?  Does  she  know  where 
to  find  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no — she  shall  never  see  me  again,"  Hattie 
answered  vehemently.  "  When  I  knew  what  she 
meant,  I  turned  and  ran  away — ran  as  hard  as  I  could 
run.  I  didn't  know  where  I  was  going — and  I  didn't 
care.  It  was  at  Charing  Cross,  I  think,  she  called  it 
— that  I  saw  her  last.  But  I'll  never  see  her  again  as 
long  as  I  live — never,"  and  the  girl's  eyes  flashed 
with  purpose  and  indignation. 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  the  Commander  whispered, 
fondling  her  as  she  spoke ;  "  you  never  shall  see  her 
again — if  we  can  help  it."  Then  she  asked  her 
another  question — in  the  lowest  and  tenderest  of 
tones. 

The  girl  blushed  furiously.  "  I  don't  know,"  she 
answered,  almost  in  the  other's  ear.  "  I  try  to  forget 
about  him — and  I  nearly  have,"  a  look  of  wistful 
memory  in  her  eyes.  "  I  seem  to  have  so  much  sad- 
ness in  my  life.  No,  I  don't  know  where  he  is — he 


UNDERTOW 

went  to  America  shortly  after,  and  I've  never  heard 
of  him  since.  I  was  only  seventeen  then." 

Seventeen  she  might  still  have  been — thought  her 
friend  beside  her — if  one  might  judge  by  the  sweet 
complexion,  pink  and  white  after  her  refreshing  sleep ; 
and  by  the  golden  tresses  that  had  the  buoyancy  of 
girlhood  still ;  and  by  the  big  blue  eyes  that  filled  so 
pitifully  fast ;  and  by  the  dimpling  mouth,  and  earnest 
voice,  and  all  the  simple  artlessness  that  had  so 
quickly  won  her  heart.  For  the  morning  sun  was 
pouring  in  through  the  open  window,  caressing  the 
girlish  form  with  soft  and  radiant  hands,  lighting  her 
face  with  its  tender  glow,  glancing  merrily  at  the 
tapering  fingers  that  every  now  and  then  were  raised 
to  adjust  the  sunlit  hair. 

And  as  the  Commander  looked  upon  her,  looked 
again,  gazing  into  the  eyes  that  were  so  full  of  mean- 
ing and  emotion,  she  realized  how  rarely  lovable  was 
this  bloom  from  distant  fields,  borne  by  unfriendly 
winds  toward  the  awful  peril  of  London's  fiery  flame. 

"  Tell  me  about  your  mother — tell  me  more  about 
your  mother,"  she  said  presently,  the  request  follow- 
ing naturally  from  her  immovable  confidence  in  the 
goodness  of  the  girl.  The  Commander  felt  an  unal- 
terable assurance  that  she  was  heart-true,  and  innocent, 
and  pure,  however  darkly  circumstances  had  con- 
spired against  her.  "  Are  you  like  her — do  you  look 
like  her,  I  mean  ?  "  she  added,  trying  to  make  it  easier 
for  her  to  go  on. 

"  Yes,  mother  was  fair — she  had  hair  like  mine," 
said  Hattie,  her  hand  resting  on  the  other's.  "  She 


HATTIE   And  The  COMMANDER        131 

was  an  Aberdonian ;  and  father  and  she  came  to  live 
near  Chester  before  I  was  born.  The  earliest  thing 
I  can  remember  was  looking  over  the  great  valley  of 
the  Dee ;  and  mother  used  to  sing  : — '  Mary,  call  the 
cattle  home' — she  had  the  sweetest  voice  I  ever 
heard,  I  think." 

"  I  believe  that,  dear,"  the  Commander  said  softly ; 
"  have  you  a  picture  of  her  ?  " 

«  Yes — but  it's  in  my  box.  Oh,  what  will  I  do 
about  my  box?"  she  cried,  suddenly  remembering — 
"  it's  at  that  place — that  place  that  I  went  to  first." 

"  Have  you  the  address,  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  the  street ;  and  the  number  " — and 
the  billowy  crimson  flowed  again  over  neck  and 
cheek — "  but  I  can't  go  near  it — I  shan't — if  I  should 
never  get  my  box." 

"  Don't  worry  about  that,  Hattie.  You  see,  I  have 
found  out  your  name — and  you'll  let  me  call  you  by 
it.  Don't  bother  about  that — you'll  give  me  an  order, 
and  I'll  see  that  it's  taken  out  for  you.  You'll  let 
me  have  it  brought  here  in  the  meantime,  won't  you, 
dear  ?  Let  this  be  your  home  for  a  little.  Now,  let 
us  talk  about  the  future.  Is  there  anything  you  can 
do — any  kind  of  employment,  I  mean?  Did  you 
ever  prepare  to  teach — or  sew — or  give  music  les- 
sons— or  anything  of  that  sort  ?  You  say  you  don't 
want  to  go  back  to  the  country." 

"No,  I  couldn't  go  back  to  Chester — I  simply 
couldn't.  I  never  had  a  great  deal  of  regular  school- 
ing. But  mother  was  a  scholar — at  least  we  thought 
so.  And  she  taught  me  mostly  herself." 


132  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Did  your  mother  ever  say  anything  to  you  on 
the  subject  ?  I  mean,  about  what  you  would  likely 
do  when  you  were  left  alone  ?  " 

«  No — she  thought  I  would  live  with  Aunt  Bar- 
bara. But  I  can't  now.  Yes,  she  did  speak  to  me 
once  about  what  would  happen  if  I  should  be  left 
altogether  alone." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  thought  I  might  do  something  with  my 
voice — she  thought  I  sang  sweetly.  But  I  don't 
think  I  do — only  I  loved  to  sing  to  her.  She  asked 
me  to  sing  to  her  when  she  was  dying — and  I  did," 
the  trembling  voice  indicating  how  sacred  was  the 
memory. 

"  What  did  you  sing,  dear  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  hymn — mother  loved  the  hymns.  Of 
course  we  all  belonged  to  the  Scotch  church — so 
father  thought  of  nothing  but  the  psalms.  Mother 
liked  them  too ;  and  we  used  to  sing  them  at  family 
worship.  But  she  loved  some  of  the  hymns  just  as 
well,  I  think." 

"  What  hymn  was  it  you  sang,  Hattie  ?  " 

"  It  was, '  When  I  survey  the  wondrous  Cross  ' — 
mother  liked  it  better  than  any  of  the  others.  And 
I  love  it  too.  I  sang  it  to  her  just  before  she  left 
me — and" — the  girl  stopped,  evidently  doubtful  as 
to  whether  or  not  she  should  go  on. 

"  And  what,  Hattie — what  then  ?  " 

"Well,  it  was  then  she  gave  me  this  cross — this 
one  that  I  wear — I  saw  you  looking  at  it." 

"  Yes,"  the  Commander  replied,  deeply  interested. 


H ATT  IE  And  The  COMMANDER        133 

"  I've  been  wondering  about  it  ever  since  you  came 
in — you  say  your  mother  gave  it  to  you  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'll  tell  you  about  it — it  has  a  history.  A 
poor  woman  near  us  was  a  great  friend  of  mother's 
— and  mother  nursed  her.  Well,  she  used  to  be  a 
servant  in  Canon  Kingsley's  house — it  was  Canon 
Kingsley  who  wrote  '  Mary  call  the  cattle  home ' ; 
and  when  she  left,  he  gave  her  this  cross.  He  was 
such  a  good  man  !  And  when  she  was  dying,  she 
gave  it  to  mother.  I  had  hardly  ever  seen  it  before 
— I  guess  father  didn't  like  mother  to  have  it  very 
much ;  for  the  Scotch  people  mostly  think  it's  like 
the  Catholics.  So  mother  kept  it  away  some  place 
by  itself — but  she  had  it  under  her  pillow  when  she 
was  dying.  Mother's  mother  was  a  Catholic  in  the 
Highlands ;  but  her  father  was  a  Presbyterian — and 
so  was  she,  of  course.  But  still  she  loved  this  little 
cross,  I  know." 

"  And  did  she  put  it  on  your  neck  with  her  own 
hands,  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  locked  it  on  herself — and  the  key  was 
in  her  poor  thin  hand  when  she  was  buried.  She 
has  the  key  and  I " 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  never  mind — don't  speak  fur- 
ther of  it.  I  shouldn't  have  asked  you — don't  cry, 
dear  " — and  the  pure  lips  that  gently  touched  the 
girl's  were  as  tender  as  those  that  mouldered  in  a  dis- 
tant grave. 

"  No,  no  " — Hattie  sobbed — "  only  I  remember 
how  the  poor  fingers  touched  my  neck — she  was 
coughing  so — and  I  want  to  tell  you.  She  kept  the 


134  THE    UNDERTOW 

key — and  I  promised  her — I  promised  her,"  she  went 
on,  controlling  herself  by  a  resolute  struggle,  "  that  I 
would  wear  the  little  cross  always,  always  as  long 
as " — then  the  voice  hushed  to  a  whisper  and  the 
rest  was  breathed  into  her  listener's  ear.  "  And  I 
have  " — she  resumed  almost  violently — "  I  have — 
and  I  always  will — always !  Oh,  my  mother,  my 
darling  mother ! "  and  the  sobbing  form  was  folded 
tight,  passionately  tight,  in  the  loving  arms  of  the 
woman  who  was  sobbing  almost  like  herself. 

"  Thank  God,  my  child " — the  older  one  mur- 
mured low — "  thank  God,  my  child — He'll  never  let 
you  go — and  I  won't  either,"  she  cried,  holding  her 
closer  still. 

The  spasm  of  lonely  anguish  soon  spent  itself  as 
Hattie  nestled  in  the  loving  arms  that  had  been  the 
first  to  enfold  her  since  her  mother  died. 

"  I  must  go  soon,"  she  said  presently,  glancing  at 
a  clock  on  the  mantel. 

"  Go  where,  Hattie  ?  "  asked  the  other ;  "  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  stay  with  us  a  while." 

"  So  I  am — if  you'll  have  me.  But  I  promised  to 
keep  an  engagement  at  ten  o'clock  this  morning ;  it 
was " 

"  An  engagement ! "  the  Commander  cried  invol- 
untarily. "  Is  it  about  a  position  ?  "  she  added,  as  if 
to  atone  for  the  amazement  in  her  voice. 

Hattie's  face  showed  her  embarrassment.  "  No," 
she  began,  a  little  nervously,  "  it's  to  meet  a — a 
friend."  Her  eyes  turned  full  upon  the  Commander's 


H ATT  IE  And  The  COMMANDER        135 

face,  shining  with  confidence  and  candour.  "  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it.  When  I  ran  away  from  that  girl 
yesterday,  I  was  so  terrified  I  wouldn't  speak  to  any- 
body— would  hardly  look  at  anybody.  Only  I  tried 
one  or  two  places  where  I  thought  a  girl  might  get 
work — just  common  work,  you  know — but  they 
were  all  full ;  and  none  of  them  needed  anybody. 
And  that  went  on  till  it  got  dark ;  and  I  was  so 
tired — and  so  hungry — I'd  never  been  hungry  before 
like  that — and  I  waited — and  walked  on — looking 
till  I  should  see  some  face  I  thought  I  could  trust. 
And  I  tried  at  last.  I  really  asked  for  something  to 
eat."  And  the  wistful  face  looked  up  toward  the 
sweet  face  above  her  as  if  to  ask  absolution. 

"  Well,  dear  ?  " — and  the  smiling  eyes  were  free  from 
the  faintest  symptom  of  reproach — "  how  did  the  face 
turn  out  ?  Was  it  trustworthy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes," — and  her  experienced  listener 
could  not  but  note  the  warmth  of  her  tone  and  the 
significance  of  her  heightening  colour.  "  Oh,  yes, 
you  could  tell  he  was  good  to  look  at  him — he  was 
tall — and  dark — and  handsome ;  at  least  his  face  had  a 
lot  of  kindness  in  it.  And  he  was  so  good,  so  good 
and  kind — and  he  wanted  me  to  stay  here  till  he 
came  this  morning  to  see  me.  Oh,  tell  me  " — she 
pleaded  suddenly,  the  thought  just  occurring  to  her 
— "  do  you  think  I  shouldn't  ?  Is  it  wrong  ?  He's  a 
minister,  you  know — oh,  yes,"  she  protested,  as  the 
other  checked  a  smile — "  he's  a  minister — I  saw 
his  credentials  ;  and  he  is  anyhow,  without  them — but 


136  THE    UNDERTOW 

I  won't  see  him  if  you  don't  want  me  to,"  she  con- 
cluded, slipping  her  hand  into  the  strong  soft  palm 
that  returned  its  pressure. 

"  My  child,  do  whatever  you  think  is  best.  I  trust 
you  absolutely — and  I  know " 

"  I'll  bring  him  to  see  you,"  Hattie  interrupted 
eagerly,  as  if  the  brightest  of  all  ideas  had  suddenly 
occurred  to  her — "  and  then  you'll  be  sure  I'm  right." 

"  Just  as  you  like  about  that,  Hattie — I'll  be  glad 
to  see  him.  The  best  credentials  after  all  are  the 
eyes — and  the  voice.  They  hardly  ever  deceive, 
Hattie," — and  she  drew  near  to  the  girl  in  sudden 
fondness,  looking  into  the  still  glistening  eyes,  and 
stroking  the  wayward  hair.  "  Hattie,  you  have  the 
credentials — but  remember,  dear,  some  cruel  people, 
some  men — and  women,  too — they  won't  regard 
them  as  anything  but  playthings  for  their  cruelty. 
I  mean  your  eyes — and  your  hair — and  those  dimpled 
cheeks.  But  how  silly  of  me  to  be  talking  like  this 
— only  you  are  beautiful,  Hattie ;  and  I  shall  always 
pray  that  the  great  Captain  will  protect  you." 

Hattie's  agitation,  as  she  looked  up  and  listened  to 
the  portentous  words,  showed  that  their  meaning  was 
not  hidden  from  her. 

"  I  know,"  she  answered,  her  lip  trembling — "  that 
is — I  know  what  you  mean  ;  oh,  do  pray  for  me.  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  been  drawn  out  of  some  awful  stream 
that  was  rushing  toward  a  torrent.  Oh,  I  love  you 
— I  do  love  you  " — and  two  arms  were  flung  firmly 
about  the  other's  neck,  two  rosy  lips  telling  out  the 
song  of  their  deliverance. 


H ATT  IE  And  The  COMMANDER        \yj 

"  And  now,  dear,  if  you  are  going  to  meet  this 
friend  at  ten,  you'll  have  to  go  down  to  the  waiting- 
room,"  the  Commander  reminded  as  soon  as  she  was 
disengaged.  "  But  there's  just  one  thing  I  want  you 
to  do  for  me  before  you  go.  I  haven't  forgotten 
what  you  said  about  your  singing — and  I  must  see 
for  myself — or  hear,  rather.  Come  with  me  for  just 
a  minute." 

She  led  the  way,  amid  many  a  servant's  courtesy  and 
many  a  soldier's  salute,  to  an  adjoining  room. 

"  Now  let  us  try  this,"  she  said,  seating  herself  on 
a  rude  bench  before  a  little  organ — "  try  that  second 
verse.  I  think  it's  the  loveliest  thing  in  the  book." 

She  pressed  the  keys,  played  the  prelude  in  part — 
and  smiled  her  signal  for  Hattie  to  begin.  Which 
Hattie  did,  her  voice  trembling  a  little  at  first ;  for  the 
transition  from  other  scenes  was  sharp  ;  and  the  con- 
trast inevitably  flashed  upon  her  mind.  But  in  a 
moment  her  voice  had  steadied  itself  and  the  rich 
words  blended  with  it : 

"  Other  refuge  have  I  none 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee." 

She  did  not  notice  the  almost  startled  air  of  her 
companion  as  the  quality  of  the  girl's  voice  smote 
her  ear  with  a  great  surprise.  The  Commander  said 
nothing,  but  played  on,  quickly  passing  to  the  suc- 
ceeding verse.  When  it  was  finished,  she  rose  sud- 
denly to  her  feet,  a  flushed  cheek  the  only  verdict. 

"  I  want  you  to  sing  this  night  week,"  she  said,  in- 
tensity in  her  tone — "  this  night  week  at  half  past 


138  THE    UNDERTOW 

six  or  so,  at  our  woman's  meeting  at  the  Poplar 
barracks.  I'll  be  down  that  night  myself — I'll  take 
you  down.  The  room  will  be  full  of  girls  and 
women — and  we'll  have  a  little  service,  as  they  al- 
ways do.  I'll  play  for  you  myself — now  good-bye  ; 
I'll  likely  see  you  when  you  come  back." 

It  was  a  few  minutes  after  the  appointed  hour — 
when  Hattie  Hastie  went  down  to  the  hallway  of 
what  she  really  felt  had  been  to  her  a  house  of  God 
and  the  gate  of  heaven.  It  was  a  plain  bare  hall- 
way with  a  few  seats  down  each  side.  Yet  it  seemed 
thrice  beautiful  to  her  thankful  gaze ;  for  it  linked 
her  to  the  highest  friend,  as  it  had  sheltered  her  from 
the  fiercest  foe.  She  felt,  too,  though  the  thought 
was  not  defined  within  her,  that  it  had  done  more — 
that  it  had  enlisted  her  on  the  victorious  side  in  life's 
spectral  fight,  vivid  and  actual  as  it  had  become  to 
her  so  suddenly  beleaguered  soul. 

She  had  been  there  scarce  a  moment  when  her 
eyes  fell  on  Stephen,  coming  through  the  entrance. 
He  sees  her  too — and  has  already  started  forward  to 
meet  her.  He  can  catch  the  new  radiance  upon  her 
face — that  face  which  the  darkness  of  the  night,  with 
the  dark's  suggestive  guile,  had  half  concealed  and 
half  revealed. 

Eager  for  a  fuller  verdict,  he  hurries  toward  her ; 
for  the  fainter  fascination  of  the  night  had  merged 
with  the  morning  into  a  distincter  interest,  which 
he  would  have  been  as  reluctant  to  acknowledge  as 
he  was  unable  to  explain. 

But  if  this   interest  in  the  girl  was  unjustified  by 


HATriE  And  The  COMMANDER        139 

anything  that  had  passed  before,  it  was  not  without 
good  excuse  for  its  existence  now,  as  Stephen  looked 
anew  upon  the  face  that  had  not  been  absent  from 
his  dreams.  And  if  that  face  had  claimed  the  chiefest 
place  in  the  visions  of  the  night,  it  was  less  to  be 
remarked  that  its  rivals  were  forgotten  now,  the 
morning  light  attesting  a  beauty  which  the  shadows 
of  the  night  could  but  suggest. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Hastie,"  said  Stephen,  tak- 
ing her  hand.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you  again.  And  I 
needn't  ask  if  you've  had  a  good  night's  rest,"  he 
averred,  the  manly  face  lit  up  with  genuine  pleasure. 

"  And  I'm  glad  to  see  you  " — responded  Hattie — 
"  I  wanted  to  thank  you  again — and  oh,  I  met  such 
a  good  lady  in  there." 

"  That's  good ;  I  felt  sure  you  would  encounter 
somebody  worth  while  here,"  said  Stephen.  "  Now 
it  isn't  very  cheerful  just  here.  Suppose  we  step 
across  the  street  and  take  one  of  the  seats  in  that 
little  park."  The  girl  brought  her  hat  and  went  as 
cheerily  as  if  to  an  outing,  and  in  a  moment  they 
were  at  the  little  oasis  of  green  that  could  be  seen 
from  the  doorway  of  the  house.  "  Isn't  London 
splendidly  provided  with  places  like  this  ? "  said 
Stephen.  "  They  must  be  a  haven  of  refuge  for  many 
a  weary  one,"  he  added,  leading  the  way  toward  the 
little  seat. 

"  It's  a  poor  haven,"  Hattie  answered,  sighing — 
"  it  needs  something  more  than  that."  Stephen 
made  no  reply  ;  and  they  took  their  places  in  silence 
upon  the  bench. 


140  THE    UNDERTOW 

The  altogether  significant  feature  of  their  inter- 
view was  the  very  silence  of  it :  and  Stephen,  at  any 
rate,  found  it  full  of  melody.  The  embarrassment 
that  seemed,  half- conscious  though  it  was,  to  keep 
Hattie's  eyes  turned  from  his  own,  clothed  her  in  new 
sweetness  ;  and  her  shy  silence  he  thought  altogether 
lovely.  A  sense  of  the  chivalric,  deeper  than  he  had 
ever  felt  before,  thrilled  him  with  soft  gladness,  his 
heart  going  out  to  the  girl  in  a  spirit  that  sympathy 
had  enlisted,  but  which  was  fast  changing  to  one  of 
distinct  and  cordial  admiration. 

By  and  by  the  stream  of  conversation  began  to 
flow,  the  man  groping,  with  womanly  curiosity,  for 
the  threads  of  his  companion's  life-story.  Part  of 
which  she  told  him — all  that  was  essential — her 
natural  candour  and  innocence  lending  a  sweet  grace 
to  her  words.  Nor  could  he  fail  to  realize  that  the 
deepest  and  clearest  note  of  all  her  being  was  the 
spiritual,  the  spiritual  in  its  simplest  sense ;  for  her 
nature  was  essentially  religious,  and  the  very  atmos- 
phere of  her  life  was  of  trustfulness  and  hope. 

Freer,  and  still  more  free,  the  shining  words  flowed 
on,  rippling  sometimes,  sometimes  laughing  on  their 
pebbly  way,  sometimes  halting  deep  and  troubled  in 
the  shadow ;  but  always  clear,  always  transparent,  and 
true,  and  full  of  mirror-charm,  the  pure  stream  found 
its  way.  And  as  Stephen  listened  to  the  limpid 
story,  and  gazed,  when  he  might,  into  the  eyes  that 
bore  their  evidence,  sometimes  dancing,  sometimes 
brimming,  to  that  story's  simple  truth,  he  heard  a 
new  voice  calling  in  tones  hitherto  unknown,  a  soft 


H 'ATI IE  And   The  COMMANDER        141 

new  hand  fumbling  with  a  golden  key  at  the  prison- 
door  that  no  hand  had  unlocked  before. 

Again  did  silence,  deep-wooded  silence,  fall  upon 
them,  broken  only  by  those  arbour-voices  that  even 
London's  roaring  may  not  muffle. 

"  May  I  ask  you  now  ?  "  he  said,  suddenly.  "  Will 
you  not  tell  me  now  ?  " 

"  What  ?  ".Hattie  asked,  wondering. 

"  About  that  cross — you  know  you  nearly  prom- 
ised to  tell  me  about  it." 

"  Yes,"  Hattie  answered,  very  quietly.  "  And 
there's  very  little  to  tell.  My  mother  gave  it  to  me 
— just  before  she  left  me.  And  I  promised  her 
always  to  wear  it — and  always  to  be  worthy  of  it : 
that  is  all,"  and  the  big  blue  eyes  looked  up  earnestly 
to  his  own. 

Whereat  one  of  the  noblest  moods  that  God  grants 
to  men  fell  upon  Stephen  Wishart ;  and  his  speech  in 
turn  flowed  forth  to  the  motherless  girl  in  rich  ac- 
cents of  sympathy  and  counsel.  As  she  listened,  his 
whole  manhood  seemed  to  expand  before  her 
in  strength  and  tenderness.  Vague,  mysterious 
glimpses  she  might  have  had  before,  of  his  limita- 
tions, his  unsophisticated  self-confidence,  his  inclina- 
tion to  selfishness,  his  liability  to  passing  impulse. 
She  may  even  have  heard  the  faint  din  of  that 
shadowy  conflict  with  which  his  strange  nature  filled 
his  life.  But  now  she  sees  nothing  but  the  glowing 
sympathy,  the  strong  gentleness,  of  a  soul  that 
dumbly  comforted  her  own  by  the  very  trust  it  re- 
posed in  her,  seeking  to  soothe  her  sorrow,  and  to 


142  THE    UNDERTOW 

shelter  her  helplessness,  with  infinite  tact  and  kind- 
ness. The  gift  and  the  glory  of  words,  too,  were  his, 
and  Hattie's  heart  beat  the  happiest  of  time  to  his 
musical  and  flowing  sentences. 

"  There's  another  thing  I  hope  you'll  pardon  my 
speaking  about,"  he  said  at  length — "  but  it's  neces- 
sary. What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  I  want  to 
help  you  in  that,  if  I  can.  I  hardly  know  anybody  in 
London — except  a  man  from  America  who  is  staying 
at  the  Metropole — but  I  could  see  a  minister — and 
perhaps  we  could  find  something  suitable.  There  are 
always " 

"  That's  so  kind  of  you,"  interrupted  Hattie — "  but 
I'm  engaged  for  a  while — yes,  I've  got  a  kind  of  a 
position  " — she  continued — "  I  don't  know  what  my 
duties  will  be ;  but  I've  got  a  kind  of  a  position,"  she 
repeated,  smiling  at  his  expression  of  surprise. 

"  Where,  what  at?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"  I  don't  know — at  least,  I  don't  know  what  at. 
But  I'm  going  back  there,"  she  avowed,  indicating 
the  Army  Home  by  a  motion  of  her  head.  "  The 
Commander  asked  me  to  come  back — and  I'm  going. 
Oh,  I  nearly  forgot ;  I'm  going  to  sing  a  week  from 
to-night  at  a  little  meeting  at  Poplar.  .  .  .  You 
didn't  know  I  could  sing,  did  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't.  Can  you  ?  And,  oh,  won't  you 
let  me  come  too  ?  " 

"  No,  I  can't — at  least,  I  can't  much  ;  but  I'm  going 
to  do  my  best  a  week  from  to-night.  And  do  you 
really  want  very  much  to  come  ?  " 

Stephen's  assurance  was  quickly  given,  and  her 


HATTIE  And  'The  COMMANDER        143 

consent  secured;  but  he  pleaded  gently  that  they 
should  meet  at  least  once  in  the  interval,  and  to  this 
at  length  Hattie  gave  assent. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that  we'll  meet 
soon  again.  Good-bye  for  just  a  little  while,"  he 
said,  and  it  thrilled  him  to  see  the  responsive  light 
with  which  Hattie's  face  kindled  at  his  words. 


XII 

The  CHURCH  of  The  COVENANT 

THE  upturned  earth  was  breathing  sweet  in- 
cense from  its  wounds  as  the  ploughman 
stopped  his  horses  now  and  then  to  tramp 
down  a  rebellious  sod,  or  quickly  adjusted  it  without 
lessening  his  speed.  One  by  one,  the  increasing  fur- 
rows were  changing  the  surface  of  the  fruitful  acres  ; 
and  Reuben  glanced  with  satisfaction  at  the  land- 
ocean  his  steady  industry  had  made  behind  him.  He 
was  repeating  to  himself  the  "  Lines  to  a  Daisy,"  that 
could  have  fallen  from  no  pen  but  that  of  the  won- 
derful ploughboy  with  whom  Jock's  great-grandfather 
had  once  made  merry  before  Immortality  had  taken 
that  ploughboy's  name  into  her  keeping. 

"  Wee,  modest,  crimson-tippit  flower,"  he  repeated, 
the  rest  flowing  half  inarticulately  from  his  lips,  till 
an  audible  :  "  thy  slender  stem,"  betokened  that  the 
end  of  the  verse  and  of  the  furrow  had  been  made 
together. 

The  farther  end  of  the  new  furrow  had  been  al- 
most reached ;  and  Reuben  took  a  quick  glance  at 
the  descending  sun,  th  •  toiler's  sentinel  and  friend, 
whose  relaxing  rays  advised  him  that  his  labours  for 
the  day  were  almost  at  an  end.  A  gentle  word  to 
the  horses  brought  them  to  a  standstill,  for  they  were 

144 


The    CHURCH   of   The    COVENANT     145 

accustomed  to  stop  while  the  furrow  was  still  incom- 
plete ;  there  is  more  ploughing  to  be  done  on  the 
morrow,  and  it  is  easier  to  start  in  the  open.  Reuben 
flung  the  rope-lines  in  different  directions  from  his 
hands  and  stooped  to  unhitch  the  clanging  traces. 
One  chain  had  been  released  and  thrown,  resounding, 
over  the  horse's  back,  when  a  voice  broke  in  upon 
him. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  Wishart  lives  ?  " 

Looking  up,  Reuben  saw  that  the  question  came 
from  a  man  whom  he  had  never  met  before,  a  man 
of  about  fifty  years  of  age,  whose  general  appearance 
indicated  considerable  prosperity.  He  had  come  un- 
heard across  the  field,  following  the  path  of  Reuben's 
latest  furrow. 

"  Mr.  Wishart  ?  Yes,  sir,"  Reuben  answered,  sur- 
veying the  stranger  as  he  spoke ;  "  he  lives  in  that 
house  yonder,  beyond  that  little  bush — he's  my 
father." 

"  Oh,  I  see — have  you  a  brother  called  Stephen 
Wishart,  the  Reverend  Stephen  Wishart  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir — but  I  don't  think  he's  exactly  a  Rev- 
erend yet,"  replied  Reuben  smiling ;  "  he  hasn't  been 
ordained  yet,  you  know." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I've  met  your 
brother — but  he's  practically  that,  being  through  his 
college  course.  I  would  like  to  have  an  interview 
with  your  brother.  That's  what  I  came  here  for." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  sir — but  my  brother  isn't  at 
home." 

"  What !     Away  from  home  ?  "  said  the  other,  evi- 


146  THE    UNDERTOW 

dently  amazed.  "  Where  is  he  ?  Will  he  be  back 
soon  ?  " 

"  No,  not  very  soon,  I'm  afraid — he's  in  the  old 
country — gone  there  to  complete  his  studies,"  said 
Reuben,  terminating  the  existence  of  a  horse-fly  with 
a  resounding  slap ;  "  he's  going  to  study  in  Edin- 
burgh," he  concluded,  brotherly  pride  mingling  with 
the  words. 

"  Well,  that's  unfortunate,"  said  the  man.  "  I 
came  a  good  way  to  see  him.  I  knew  he  was  think- 
ing of  going  to  Europe,  but  I  didn't  imagine  he  was 
going  so  soon." 

"  He's  gone,"  said  the  ploughman,  with  the  plain- 
ness of  his  race,  scraping  the  upper  part  of  the  plough- 
share as  he  spoke.  "  What  did  you  want  to  see  him 
about,  might  I  ask  ?  "  he  ventured,  looking  up  at  the 
stranger. 

"  Oh,  certainly,  my  name's  Alger  and  I  live  in 
Hamilton — one  of  our  city  churches  there  is  without 
a  minister — the  one  to  which  I  belong ;  our  minister 
was  called  to  New  York — and  a  couple  of  us  have 
been  sent  here  to  confer  with  your  brother  with  a 
view  to  giving  him  a  call.  Nothing  technically  com- 
pleted yet,  you  know,  but  our  congregation  are 
unanimous  in  wanting  him.  It  certainly  is  disap- 
pointing." 

"  Oh,"  enquired  Reuben,  "  is  yours  the  Church  of 
the  Covenant,  the  one  Steve  used  to  go  and  preach 
in  sometimes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  supplied  frequently  for  us  when  our  last 
minister  was  absent  in  the  Orient — and  he  made  a 


The    CHURCH   of   The    COVENANT     147 

lasting  impression.  We  were  all  so  taken  with  his 
culture — and  his  eloquence." 

"  I've  often  heard  Steve  speak  about  your  church," 
said  Reuben. 

"  Has  your  brother  any  idea  we  are  thinking  of 
him,  do  you  think  ?  "  enquired  the  visitor,  smiling  at 
Reuben. 

"  No,  I  shouldn't  think  so.  At  least,  I  never  heard 
him  speak  of  it — I've  heard  him  say  he  could  get  a 
call  to  Morven  if  he  liked." 

"  Morven  !     Where  is  Morven  ?  " 

"  It's  up  north — up  by  the  lake  somewhere,"  an- 
swered Reuben  ;  "  you  must  have  heard  of  it — but  it's 
not  a  very  big  place,"  candour  inclined  him  to  append. 
He  gathered  up  the  lines  as  he  spoke. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  it  now.  A  hamlet,  a  mere 
hamlet,  a  man  up  there  used  to  buy  goods  from  me — 
it's  hardly  likely  your  brother  would  consider 
Morven.  But  about  the  matter  that  brought  me 
here,"  he  resumed  quickly,  the  business  air  strongly 
in  evidence,  "  I  hardly  know  what  to  do.  You  think 
your  brother  won't  be  back  for  some  time  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  he  won't,"  said  Reuben,  giving  the  lines 
another  jerk  backward ;  for  the  hungry  horses  were 
tired  of  the  conversation.  They  could  see  the  barn 
beyond  the  point  of  woods. 

"  Your  father's  at  home,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  father's  there." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do— I'll  go  back  to 
the  village  and  have  supper  ;  then  I'll  bring  the  other 
member  of  the  committee  and  we'll  come  and  talk 


148  THE    UNDERTOW 

matters  over  with  your  father.  It  won't  do  any  harm 
— he  can  report  to  your  brother ;  though  of  course 
we'll  write  to  him  direct." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Reuben,  "  father'll  be  glad  to 
see  you." 

"  Good-bye  just  now ;  I'll  hope  to  see  you  a  little 
later,"  said  the  stranger  as  he  turned  to  go  his  way. 

Robert  Wishart  was  waiting  in  the  house  for  his 
son  when  he  came  home. 

"  Weel,  Reuben,  yir  day's  work's  by,"  said  the 
kindly  voice  ;  "  ye'll  be  through  wi'  yon  field  to-mor- 
row, will  ye  no'  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,  at  least  I  think  so — but  it  looks  like 
rain  a  little."  The  last  words  were  lost  in  another 
deluge,  splash  after  splash  indicating  the  luxury  after 
the  dusty  toil. 

"  I've  news  for  you  to-night,  father," — the  words 
came  from  the  recesses  of  a  roller  towel. 

"  News  for  me,  my  son  ?  I  hope  it's  guid ;  ye've 
had  a  screed  frae  Stephen,  mebbe." 

"  No,  father,  no  word  from  Stephen — but  the  news 
is  about  him  though — and  it's  good,  all  right." 

"  Weel,  let's  hae't.  Has  the  laddie  gotten  a  schol- 
arship ?  " 

"  No,  not  exactly  that,"  answered  Reuben  ;  "  and 
yet  I  don't  know  but  what  you  might  call  it  that,"  he 
added,  smiling  toward  his  father's  eager  face.  "  A 
man  from  Hamilton  was  looking  for  him  this  after- 
noon— came  up  to  me  where  I  was  ploughing  and 
asked  me  if  I  knew  where  Mr.  Wishart  lived.  But 
'twas  Steve  he  meant.  There's  two  of  them,  he  said 


The    CHURCH  of   The    COVENANT     149 

— he  left  the  other  man  at  the  village.  And  what  do 
you  think  they  wanted  with  Steve,  father  ?  " 

"  I  dinna  ken  ;  how  cud  I  ken  ?  It'll  no'  be  aboot 
a  call  ?  " 

"  The  very  thing,  father — they've  been  sent  by  the 
Church  of  the  Covenant ;  and  they " 

"  What's  that  ye're  tellin'  me  ?  "  his  father  broke  in 
excitedly  ;  "  ye're  no'  meanin'  to  tell  me  he's  gotten 
a  call  to  the  Covenant  kirk  ?  It  canna  be." 

"  Not  exactly  a  call,  father — of  course  they  couldn't 
call  him  yet  because  he's  not  licensed  yet." 

"  I  ken  that  fine — I've  aye  kenned  that." 

"  Not  exactly  a  call,  as  I  said,"  Reuben  resumed ; 
"  but  it  amounts  to  that.  They  have  no  minister  and 
the  congregation's  set  on  Steve.  He  often  preached 
for  them  last  winter  and  it  seems  they  took  right  to 
him — and  these  men  were  sent  to  approach  him 
about  a  call." 

"  They  didna  ken  he  was  i'  the  auld  country  ?  " 

"  No,,  this  gentleman* — Mr.  Alger's  his  name,  he 
said — he  was  quite  disappointed  when  I  told  him 
that.  But  still,  I  thought  he  looked  kind  of  pleased) 
too.  I  suppose  a  church  like  that  wants  a  man  with 
all  the  polish  he  can  get." 

The  old  man's  face  clouded  a  little : — "  I'm  no' 
much  ta'en  wi'  their  pole-ish  these  days,"  he  re- 
turned. "  It's  a'  richt  if  it's  frae  a  Higher  Hand — but 
if  it's  frae  the  hand  o'  man  it'll  no'  stick  lang — it'll 
no'  stand  the  fire !  It's  the  heart  as  needs  pole-ishin' 
— no'  the  heid — an'  naethin'  can  mak  that  clean  but 
the  blood  o'  Christ,"  he  concluded  solemnly,  his  face 


150  THE    UNDERTOW 

glowing  with  the  thought,  for  the  truth  he  spoke  was 
a  reality  to  his  soul. 

"  That's  what  I  think  myself,  father.  And  I  hope 
Stephen  will  always  preach  that  old  truth  just  as 
you've  spoken  it — and  I  believe  he  will." 

"  I  hope  so,  my  son,  I  hope  so,"  his  father  an- 
swered gravely.  "  I'm  aye  prayin'  for  him.  An'  his 
mither  aye  prayed  the  same ;  an'  I'm  trustin'  won- 
nerfu'  to  his  mither's  prayers,"  he  added,  the  voice 
faltering  perceptibly,  for  Robert  Wishart's  life  was 
very  lonely  now. 

"  Did  ye  say  the  men  frae  the  city  was  gone 
hame  ?  "  he  pursued,  turning  quickly  from  the  more 
tender  vein. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  forgot  to  tell  you — they're  going  back 
on  the  express  that  leaves  at  half-past  nine ;  and  Mr. 
Alger  said  they'd  be  up  after  supper  to  talk  things 
over  with  you.  I  fancy  they'll  be  here  before  long." 

"  That's  guid,"  rejoined  his  father.  "  I'll  be  richt 
glad  to  see  them.  But  I  wish  yir  mither  had  been 
here — she  was  better  nor  me  at  the  counsellin'.  Did 
they  seem  to  be  speeritual-minded  men,  Reuben  ?  " 
he  enquired  anxiously. 

"  Yes,"  Reuben  answered  slowly,  "  that  is — you 
mightn't  just  think  so — of  course,  theirs  is  a  different 
way  from  ours.  I  only  saw  one  of  them,  you  know 
— the  other  didn't  come." 

"  You  maun  be  hungry,  my  son.  Ye've  had  a 
hard  day — but  it  aye  maks  the  morsel  guid  to  the 
mouth,  an'  the  pillow  sweet  to  the  head.  What  way 
did  ye  no'  bid  the  stranger  hame  to  supper  wi'  ye?" 


The    CHURCH   of   The    COYENAN'T     151 

"  I  thought  of  it,  father,  but  I  didn't  like  to.  I 
was  afraid  he'd  find  things  rather  plain.  Mr.  Alger 
had  a  gold  watch — and  he  wore  those  boots  that  you 
never  need  to  polish." 

"  It's  an  awfu'  time  for  pole-ish,"  and  a  smile  lit  up 
the  old  man's  face ;  "  there's  mony  a  yin  pole-ished  at 
that  end  that's  no'  ower  bricht  at  the  ither — that's  no' 
to  say  Mr.  Awlger  is  yin  o'  them,  mind  ye." 

"  I  don't  think  he  is,  father — he  seemed  a  nice 
sensible  gentleman." 

"  Then  ye  should  hae  brocht  him  wi'  ye  to  supper. 
Mebbe  he'd  a'  likit  the  change.  Yir  true  gentleman 
aye  maks  little  o'  appearances.  Style's  naethin', 
onyway,"  the  old  man  affirmed  with  considerable 
contempt  in  his  voice ;  "  onybody  can  hae  thae  shoon 
that's  aye  shinin'.  An'  my  faither  had  a  hat  as  keepit 
its  pole-ish  for  forty  year — it's  i'  the  room,  ye  ken — 
he  aye  wore  it  on  the  Sabbath  day,"  and  a  gleam  of 
playful  humour  lighted  up  the  noble  countenance. 

"  They're  coming,  father — I  hear  Collie  barking," 
Reuben  said  suddenly. 

A  minute  later  Robert  Wishart  opened  the  door 
himself,  welcoming  the  strangers  warmly  and  bidding 
them  make  themselves  at  home. 

An  hour  or  more  had  passed  in  discussion  of  the 
matter  under  consideration  when  the  master  of  the 
house,  warming  to  his  guests,  suggested  that  they 
draw  their  chairs  closer  to  the  hearth.  "  The  even- 
in's  cool — an'  a  bit  fire's  heartsome  ony  time,"  he 
said ;  "  sit  doon,  sir,  and  I'll  bring  anither  stick." 


152  THE    UNDERTOW 

As  he  approached  the  hearth,  a  goodly  pile  of 
hickory  in  his  arms,  Mr.  Alger  interrupted  him : — 
"  Pardon  me,  sir,  but  may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  re- 
plenishing the  fire?  In  the  city  we  are  unaccus- 
tomed to  these  spacious  fireplaces — but  I  think  they 
are  the  very  essence  of  luxury." 

"  Ye're  richt,"  answered  his  host,  "  there's  mair 
music  i'  them  than  a  piano,  my  faither  used  to  say. 
'Twas  a  guid  freen  to  him  i'  the  early  days,  mind  ye. 
Help  yirsel',  sir.  Rax  oot  yir  hand  to  the  wood." 
Whereupon  Mr.  Alger  did  put  forth  his  hand,  fling- 
ing stick  after  stick  upon  the  crackling  flame. 

"  You  see  how  generous  I  am,"  he  laughed,  "  with 
what  isn't  my  own.  It's  easy  to  pitch  on  wood  that 
you  didn't  have  to  cut  or  carry  yourself." 

"  Div  ye  ken  the  way  my  faither  used  to  express 
that  ?  "  Robert  Wishart  asked  him,  gazing  reminis- 
cently  into  the  blaze. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Alger,  "  how  did  your  father  put 
it?" 

"  'Twas  the  Scotch  way,"  returned  his  host,  "  an' 
no'  a  bad  yin  either.  He  wad  say : — '  A  borrowed 
horse,  an'  yir  ain  whip,  maks  short  miles,'  " — and  the 
good  man  joined  heartily  in  the  laugh  that  followed. 

"  Very  good,  Mr.  Wishart,  very  good  indeed,"  said 
Mr.  Whitney,  for  such  was  the  name  of  the  other 
whom  Mr.  Alger  had  brought  with  him.  "  Do  you 
know,  sir,  I'm  much  struck  by  the  beauty  and  sen- 
tentiousness  of  your  Scotch  language.  I  love  to  hear 
it  spoken." 

"  Are  ye  only  findin'  that  oot  noo  ?  "  rejoined  the 


7he    CHURCH   of   The    COVENANT     153 

old  Scotchman  humorously.  "  I  dinna  ken  aboot 
that  ither  thing  ye've  mentioned — but  I  ken  it's  beau- 
tifu',  a'  richt." 

"  I  suppose  you  consider  it  finer  than  the  Eng- 
lish ?  "  asked  Mr.  Whitney. 

"  Oh,  I'm  no'  sayin'  that,"  his  host  returned  mod- 
estly. "  I  aye  use  the  English  mysel' — for  fillin'  in, 
ye  ken — but  the  Scotch  bits  is  like  yon  tufts  o'  green 
ye'll  find  amang  the  wheat,  mair  rich  and  sweet,  ye 
ken — a  bit  o'  richer  soil,  ye  unnerstand.  But  that's 
no'  to  say  a  Scotchman's  ony  better  than  ithers — 
only  he's  Scotch,  ye  ken — an'  that's  the  Lord's  daein', 
an'  nae  credit  to  onybody,"  he  concluded  seriously. 

Mr.  Whitney  and  Mr.  Alger  cast  amused  glances 
at  each  other.  Their  host  went  on  presently,  encour- 
aged by  the  cheerful  silence. 

"  English  is  a  grand  langidge,  nae  doot — only  it's 
no'  complete — no'  feenished  like,  ye  ken." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out,  Mr.  Wishart  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Alger.  "  I  thought  the  English  language 
capable  of  expressing  any  meaning  one  wanted  to 
convey." 

"  No,"  said  the  other  thoughtfully,  "  it  canna  juist 
dae  that.  I'm  nae  scholar ;  but  it  canna  juist  dae 
that — that  is,  it  canna  dae  it  exactly,  ye  unnerstand  ? 
An'  a  langidge  as  canna  dae  that — it's  no'  complete. 
It  can  gie  the  meanin',  mebbe ;  but  no'  the  shade  o' 
meanin',  dae  ye  see  ?  " 

"What,  for  instance?"  asked  Mr.  Alger.  "Give 
us  an  example." 

"  Weel,  tak  the  like  o'  this,  for  instance — tak  the 


154  THE   UNDERTOW 

word  '  bonny ' — that's  a  shade  o'  meanin'  ye  canna  get 
wi'  the  English.  Or  tak  anither — tak  '  the  gloamin' 
— 'twixt  the  gloamin'  an'  the  mirk' — ye  canna  gie 
me  English  for  that." 

"  That  is  rather  remarkable,"  interjected  Mr.  Whit- 
ney thoughtfully,  as  he  laid  another  knot  on  the  fire. 
"  I  never  thought  of  that  before." 

"  There's  naethin'  like  the  Scotch  to  mak  a  body 
think,"  replied  Robert  Wishart,  looking  seriously 
at  his  listeners ;  "  but  I  can  gie  ye  a  better  yin 
than  ony  o'  the  ithers,"  he  pursued — "  there's  '  Auld 
Lang  Syne  ' — noo,  try  yir  hand  on  that ; "  and  he 
settled  back  in  the  old  armchair  that  had  heard  the 
liquid  language  for  well-nigh  half  a  century.  His 
guests  looked  across  at  each  other,  pondering  the 
challenge.  "  You  try  it,  Alger,"  said  Mr.  Whit- 
ney. 

"  Well,  I  hardly  feel  equal  to  it,"  Mr.  Alger  said 
slowly.  "  I  suppose  '  Old  long  since,'  as  far  as  I  can 
translate  the  words,  is  about  the  meaning  of  the 
phrase." 

The  old  man  laughed  pityingly,  giving  the  fire  a 
vicious  thrust  with  the  wooden  poker.  "  Tuts,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  that's  haverin' — naebody  kens  what  thae 
words  mean.  Even  a  born  Scotchman  '11  find  it  taks 
him  a'  his  time.  I'm  dootin'  if  onybody  kens  what 
thae  words  mean,"  he  affirmed  again.  Then  he 
turned  in  his  chair  and  looked  triumphantly  at  the 
beginners. 

"  Of  course,"  Mr.  Alger  broke  in,  "  of  course,  Mr. 
Wishart,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  phrase 


The    CHURCH   of   The    COVENANT     155 

you  have  just  tried  us  on  is  only  an  idiom.  I'm  not 
sure  that  it's  just  a  fair  test.  It's  an  idiom,  you  see ; 
and  that  should  be  borne  in  mind,  as  I  said." 

The  rural  philologist  looked  at  him  very  curiously 
for  a  moment,  the  slightest  flush  noticeable  on  his 
cheek.  "  I  dinna  ken  juist  what  ye're  meanin'  by  an 
'  eediom,'  as  ye  call  it.  But  I  suppose  it's  what  an 
eediot  says," — and  the  colour  on  his  cheek  was  deeper. 
"  Noo,  thae  words  aboot '  Auld  Lang  Syne,'  thae  was 
sacred  words  to  my  faither — an'  there  was  nae  eediot 
aboot  him,  I'll  hae  ye  unnerstand — nor  ony '  eedioms,' 
forbye.  That's  anither  thing  as  must  be  borne  in 
mind,  as  ye  say,"  he  concluded  warmly  enough  ;  for 
the  kindly  hearth- fire  could  never  scorch  his  cheek 
like  that. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wishart,  I  didn't  mean  that  for  a 
moment,"  Mr.  Alger  made  haste  to  explain ;  "  the 
word  means  something  entirely  different  from  that. 
I  only  meant  a  characteristic  phrase  ;  you  understand, 
I  think — the  peculiar  cast  of  a  language " 

"  Aye,  I  thocht  it  was  mysel',"  the  old  man  broke 
in,  appropriating  the  adjective  to  his  comfort.  "  That 
was  what  made  me  sae  warm — but  it's  a'  ower,  an* 
we'll  say  nae  mair  aboot  it.  I'll  gie  ye  anither.  Try 
this  yin — '  The  land  o'  the  leal ' — let's  hear  ye  gie  us 
the  English  for  that." 

"  It's  your  turn,  Whitney — I'm  through,"  said  the 
last  translator. 

"  '  The  land  o'  the  leal ' — let  me  see,"  pondered  the 
novice.  "  Of  course  it's  easy  enough  to  translate  it,  in 
a  way.  There's  only  one  word  Scotch.  '  Leal/  that 


156  THE    UNDERTOW 

means  loyal,  of  course.  '  The  land  of  the  loyal,'  that's 
about  it,  I  suppose." 

Robert  Wishart  withdrew  his  far-off  gaze  from  the 
fire,  turning  it  toward  the  little  room,  hushed  in 
darkness  as  it  was. 

"  Yon's  blawsphemy,"  he  said. 

Silence  prevailed  for  a  time  ;  then  the  delegates  re- 
sumed the  discussion  of  their  case  with  Robert  Wis- 
hart. The  size,  strength,  wealth,  intelligence  and 
fashionableness  of  the  Church  of  the  Covenant  were 
not  overlooked  therein.  Their  listener  marked  it  all. 
His  heart  warmed  more  at  the  cordial  terms  in  which 
they  referred  to  Stephen,  praising  his  personal  appear- 
ance, his  intellectual  powers  and  his  oratorical  gifts. 

"  What  kind  o'  man  was  yir  last  minister  ?  "  he 
suddenly  enquired,  "how  long  was  he  wi'  ye?" 

"  Nearly  three  years,  Mr.  Wishart,"  replied  Mr. 
Alger.  "  And  he  was  a  very  worthy  man — a  little 
old  fashioned  perhaps ;  and  our  people  grew  rather 
tired  of  him.  You  see,  he  fell  a  little  behind  the 
times — not  much  of  a  reader — and  we  have  a  very 
intellectual  congregation.  Dr.  Mitchell  wasn't  what 
you  would  call  familiar  with  modern  thought — 
preached  the  wrath  of  God  a  good  deal ;  and  more 
about  future  punishment  than  our  people  care  for  at 
present — and  other  things  that  are  rather  out  of  date. 
So  when  he  got  a  call  elsewhere  we  didn't  inter- 
fere with  what  he  thought  to  be  his  duty.  But  I 
have  no  doubt  he  was  a  good  man — a  very  good 
man,"  he  concluded,  repeating  the  baneful  eulogy — 
"  but  a  trifle  narrow  for  our  church." 


The    CHURCH  of   The    COVENANT     157 

A  queer  look  was  on  Robert  Wishart's  face.  "  I 
mind  readin'  somewhere — 'twas  in  an  old  book,"  he 
began,  "  as  how  the  way  was  narrow  and  the  gate  was 
straight,  if  it's  life  ye' re  wantin' — but  I'm  dootin'  that's 
oot  o'  date  wi'  the  rest,"  he  continued — "  an'  sin's  oot 
o'  date — or  gaein'  oot  fast.  An'  if  they  cud  only  put 
death  oot  o'  date,  they'd  hae  it  a'  managed  fine,"  and 
he  gazed  into  the  fire,  apparently  unconscious  of  his 
audience ;  "  but  God  aye  keeps  that  in  fashion,"  he 
mused,  glancing  at  the  darkened  room — "  an'  it's  a 
wunnerfu'  friend  to  the  Cross." 

The  master-word  must  have  awakened  some 
memory  within  him.  "  Reuben,"  he  said  impulsively, 
"  gang  ye  to  the  drawer  an'  bring  me  the  Record 
— it's  lyin'  on  the  top." 

His  son  returned  in  a  moment,  handing  him  a 
paper  that  showed  signs  of  faithful  reading.  The 
father  held  it  out  before  his  visitors.  "  Div  ye  see 
thae  marks  beside  that  bit  ?  Thae  marks  was  put 
there  by  her  that's  lyin'," — and  he  looked  long  and 
earnestly  at  the  wondering  men  ;  they  were  unfamiliar 
with  the  term,  but  could  not  mistake  the  significance 
of  the  lonely  words. 

"  It's  a  kirk  paper  frae  Kelso,"  he  went  on 
presently;  "an'  it's  aboot  an  auld  man  tellin'  his 
daughter  aboot  the  new  theology.  I'll  read  it  to  ye : — 

'"There's  nae  cross  ava,  noo, lassie, 
They've  gone  cut  doon  the  tree ; 
There's  none  believes  it  noo,  lassie, 
But  fules  like  you  an'  me  ' — 

tak  the  paper  back,  Reuben," — and  folding  it  care- 


158  THE    UNDERTOW 

fully  he  handed  it  to  his  son,  who  in  turn  bore  it  to  its 
hiding  place. 

"  May  I  ask  ye  a  question  or  twa  aboot  yir  kirk  ?  " 
Robert  Wishart  ventured,  breaking  a  long  silence. 

"  We'll  be  glad  to  give  you  any  information  we 
can,"  said  Mr.  Whitney,  rising  as  he  spoke.  "  I'm 
afraid  our  time  is  almost  up." 

"  Div  ye  teach  the  Shorter  Catechism  to  the  bairns 
i'  the  Sabbath-schule  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.  Of  course  the  superintendent  looks 
after  that.  We're  thinking  of  paying  him  a  salary," 
said  Mr.  Whitney. 

"  Hae  ye  a  guid  precentor  for  the  psalms  ?  "  pressed 
the  interrogator. 

"  No,  we  don't  have  a  precentor,"  replied  Mr. 
Alger.  "  We  have  a  paid  quartette." 

"  Ye'll  hae  an  organ  tae  ?  "  pursued  Robert  Wis- 
hart. 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  three-manual  organ,"  replied  the  other 
— "  it's  run  by  water,  you  know." 

"  Water  an'  wind  to  praise  the  Lord ! "  the  host 
muttered  to  himself.  "  How  mony  times  a  year  do 
ye  hae  the  sacrament  ?  "  he  asked  aloud. 

"  Every  three  months — once  a  quarter,"  said  Mr. 
Whitney — "  we  have  the  individual  cups,  of  course." 

"  It's  ower  often — it's  no'  helpfu'  to  reverence  to 
hae  it  sae  often.  Once  a  year  was  the  way  in  my 
faither's  kirk  in  Kelso.  An'  I've  heard  o'  thae  ither 
things — thae  cups  ye  speak  o'.  Ye'll  be  feart  o'  yin 
anither's  insides  ?  "  he  suggested,  smiling  grimly. 

44  No,  not   exactly  that,  Mr.  Wishart,"  the  other 


The    CHURCH  of   The    COVENANT     159 

rejoined,  laughing  as  he  spoke ;  "  but  in  these  days 
of  advanced  scientific " 

"  Do  ye  hae  the  fast-day  afore  the  sacrament  ?  " 
interrupted  his  examiner,  not  being  in  a  scientific 
mood. 

"  A  fast-day  ?  I  don't  recognize  the  word.  What 
does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  It  doesna  maitter — ye  wadna  unnerstand,"  re- 
plied Robert  Wishart. 

Their  host  walked  with  them  to  the  gate,  the  moon 
shining  bright  upon  his  silvered  head  as  he  gravely 
thanked  them  for  the  courtesy  of  their  visit,  assuring 
them  he  would  tell  Stephen  about  it  when  he  wrote. 

"  Onyway,  I'm  hopin'  ye'll  get  a  guid  minister  to 
yirsels  i'  the  Covenant  Kirk,"  he  went  on  in  graver 
vein.  "  A  man  that'll  feed  ye  wi'  the  true  bread  o' 
life — a  flock  wi'oot  a  shepherd's  a  sair  thing.  Oor 
kirk  here  has  had  but  twa  i'  my  day.  Weel,  I 
mauna  keep  ye,  haverin'  awa'  like  this.  Guid-nicht, 
Mr.  Whitney ;  an'  guid-nicht,  Mr.  Awlger.  Thank 
ye  for  yir  veesit — an'  safe  hame !  I'll  write  to 
Stephen.  Guid-nicht,  again." 


XIII 

A    LIGHT  in    The    WINDOW 

THE  visitors   disappeared   in   the  darkness, 
Reuben  leading  the  way  across  the  fields. 
"  That  old  man's  no  fool,  Whitney,"  said 
Mr.  Alger,  in  a  low  tone  as  they  walked  on  to- 
gether, Reuben  being  detained  a  moment  to  replace 
some  bars  through  which  they  had  just  passed. 

"  He's  anything  else  but  that,"  asserted  the  other ; 
"  I  only  hope  he'll  say  as  much  for  us  when  he 
writes  that  letter  he  talks  about.  If  the  young  fel- 
low's a  chip  of  the  old  block,  I'm  afraid  he'll  be  no 
easy  one  to  manage.  He  hews  to  the  line — the  old 
man,  I  mean.  He's  not  afraid  to  speak  right  out  in 
meeting,  is  he?  " 

"  Not  he — but  I  don't  think  the  son  is  like  him. 
At  least  I  wouldn't  judge  so  from  what  we  saw  of 
him.  He  may  hew  to  the  line  all  right — but  I  fancy 
it's  a  very  different  line.  He's  not  old  fashioned, 
like  his  father.  You  remember  the  sermon  where  he 
told  us  Abraham  only  fancied  he  heard  a  voice  tell- 
ing him  to  kill  his  son  ?  The  old  man  would  have  a 
fit  if  he  heard  him  say  that,  wouldn't  he  ?  " 

"  He'd  kill  the  son  himself,"  declared  the  other — 
"  voice  or  no  voice — the  son  would  provide  the  voice 
part,  I'll  warrant  you." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"  Do  you  know,  I  was  afraid  of  my  life  he  was 
1 60 


A    LIGHT  in    The    WINDOW      161 

going  to  have  family  worship — they  have  lots  of  it 
in  the  country,  you  know.  Wouldn't  it  have  been 
terrible  if  he  had  asked  one  of  us  to  lead  in  prayer  ?  " 

"  Wouldn't  it,  though,"  answered  his  companion  ; 
"  let's  light  a  cigar,  Alger,"  he  suggested,  feeling  the 
need  of  a  restorative. 

"  We  should  have  offered  one  to  the  old  man," 
said  Mr.  Alger,  as  they  walked  on,  bright  beacon 
lights  now  burning  before  them  both.  "  I  know  he 
smokes  ;  for  I  saw  a  pipe  on  the  mantel — it  looked 
mighty  old  and  strong." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  I  smelled  it  as  soon  as  I  went  in 
— it  looked  like  an  heirloom  in  the  family.  But  our 
friend  wouldn't  have  touched  a  cigar — too  modern 
for  him — as  bad  as  the  new  theology.  Nothing  but 
the  old  plug  for  him,  I'll  hold  you — the  same  as  his 
grandfather  smoked." 

Their  analysis  of  the  interesting  character  under 
discussion  was  interrupted,  their  guide  having  now 
rejoined  them ;  and  they  walked  in  semi  silence  to 
their  destination. 

After  Reuben  had  bidden  them  farewell,  he  hur- 
ried to  the  post-office,  finding  its  obliging  head 
in  process  of  preparation  for  retiring.  A  swift  de- 
scent below,  and  a  moment's  search,  brought  forth 
two  papers  and  a  letter  bearing  the  Wishart  name. 
The  indistinct  postmark  that  the  letter  bore  was 
scanned  in  vain — and  by  them  both — for  the  old 
post-master  took  a  personal  interest  in  his  clients, 
more  for  his  wife's  sake  than  for  theirs,  it  must  be 
told. 


162  THE    UNDERTOW 

He  must  hurry  home,  thought  Reuben,  for  his 
father  would  be  waiting  for  him.  Crossing  the  fields 
again,  he  pressed  his  returning  way,  wondering  at 
the  probable  outcome  of  the  visit  that  had  so  agi- 
tated their  uneventful  life. 

His  eye  descries  a  light  in  the  distance — and  his 
heart  throbs  with  sudden  ardour — for  he  knows 
whose  hands  have  kindled  it.  It  is  not  far  out  of 
the  way  ;  nor  would  it  much  detain  him  should  he 
turn  his  steps  aside.  Which  he  promptly  does,  and 
is  soon  within  a  few  yards  of  the  window.  The  rest 
of  the  house  is  hushed  in  darkness.  A  gauzy  curtain 
screens  the  window,  but  not  sufficiently  to  prevent 
his  vision,  which  rests  upon  the  face  whose  beauty 
had  long  enthralled  him.  She  is  writing,  he  can  see, 
having  evidently  suspended  her  preparations  for  the 
night  to  indulge  in  what  is  a  pleasant  duty,  if  rapt 
attention  and  flushing  cheek  be  any  mark  thereof. 
Her  hair,  the  crowning  glory  of  her  form,  hangs 
about  her  shoulders  ;  her  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the 
paper,  diverted  now  and  then  to  a  letter  beside  her 
which  has  evidently  provoked  her  own.  And  once 
he  saw,  torn  with  maddening  tenderness  at  the  sight 
— once  he  saw  a  quick  gush  of  tears,  quickly 
staunched,  as  she  turned  again  to  her  writing. 

"  Bessie,"  he  called  gently,  "  Bessie !  You  know 
who's  calling,  Bessie." 

The  girl  started  suddenly,  wondering  if  she  had 
heard  a  voice. 

"  Bessie,"  he  called  again,  more  softly  than  before ; 
"  it's  me — it's  Rube — don't  be  afraid.  Can  you  come 


A    LIGHT  iu    The    WINDOW       163 

out  a  minute,  Bessie?  I've  got  something  to  tell 
you." 

In  an  instant  the  light  was  out  and  a  sweet  voice 
called  from  the  window,  now  partly  raised : — "  Oh, 
Rube,  you  gave  me  such  a  start.  Is  there  anything 
the  matter?  I'll  come  out — just  wait  and  I  won't  be 
a  minute." 

Sweeter  than  cathedral  bell,  he  hears  the  rattling 
latch,  the  music  of  the  creaking  door.  And  no  white- 
robed  priest  and  swinging  censer  were  ever  so  beau- 
tiful, and  so  fragrant,  as  the  fluttering  robe  that 
melted  the  darkness  through  which  she  passed  as 
she  hurried  to  where  he  stood. 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter,  Rube  ?  I  thought 
you'd  be  in  bed  and  asleep  by  this  time." 

"  No,  Bessie,  nothing  at  all — nothing  wrong.  I 
wanted  to  see  you — oh,  Bessie." 

Emotion  shook  his  frame ;  for,  though  he  knew  it 
not,  all  the  strong  forces  of  his  nature  were  kindled 
by  the  mystic  torch  that  the  night  carries  in  her 
shadowy  hand. 

"  Bessie,  my  darling,"  he  murmured,  as  he  sought 
to  hold  her  close  to  him ;  "  come  to  me,  Bessie — why 
do  you  hesitate,  Bessie  ?  Aren't  you  my  own,  my 
very  own — come,  sweetheart" — and  he  drew  the 
half-protesting  form  down  beside  him.  They  are 
sitting  on  a  rude  garden  seat ;  and  his  arm  is  about 
her  in  tenderness.  "  Won't  you  tell  me  plainly, 
Bessie,  that  it's  settled  once  for  all  ?  Tell  me  you 
love  me — and  tell  me  that  you'll " 

But   Bessie   interrupted — for   she   knew  what   he 


164  THE    UNDERTOW 

was  about  to  plead.  More  of  sorrow  than  of  joy  is 
on  her  face.  Oh !  the  anguish  of  a  maiden's  heart 
that  knows  whom  she  ought,  and  whom  she  strives, 
to  love ;  yet  knows  another,  whose  face  must  first  be 
banished  from  her  soul. 

"  Rube,  oh,  Rube,  is  this  what  you  brought  me 
out  to  hear?  I  thought  you  wanted  to  tell  me 
something." 

Dark  though  it  was,  she  yet  could  not  fail  to  see 
the  pallor  that  overspread  his  face  at  her  words.  "  I 
don't  mean,  Rube,"  she  went  on,  playfully  lifting  the 
hand  that  had  fallen  from  her  neck  and  holding  it  to 
her  cheek ;  "  I  don't  mean  that  it  isn't  sweet  to  hear 
it,  Rube — but  I  was  so  busy — and  I  thought  you 
had  news  for  me." 

"  So  I  have — I've  got  some  news  about  Steve. 
But  I  forgot  about  it  when  you  came  out  to  me 
through  the  dark.  Oh,  Bessie,  it's  so  hard  to  tell 
what  it  means — but  to  have  any  one  you  love  com- 
ing to  you  nearer — always  nearer — coming  on  through 
the  dark ! "  and  Reuben's  face  glowed  in  the  night, 
illumined  by  a  heart  as  pure  as  loving. 

She  moved  slightly  from  him,  turning  to  look  into 
his  face.  "  Stephen !  "  she  said — and  her  tone  was 
low — "  what  news  have  you  of  Stephen  ?  " 

A  momentary  disappointment  cast  its  shadow  over 
Reuben's  face;  for  he  had  thought  she  too  would 
have  given  first  place  to  other  thoughts  than  those 
that  were  linked  to  tidings  of  another — and  he  so  far 
away.  But  his  pride  in  his  brother  was  great  and  he 
was  well  pleased  that  others  should  share  it  too. 


A    LIGHT:  in    The    WINDOW       165 

"  He's  had  a  great  honour — Steve's  been  offered  a 
call  to  Hamilton — to  the  Church  of  the  Covenant. 
Two  of  the  officers  of  the  church  were  at  our  house 
this  evening.  I'm  just  on  my  way  home  from  seeing 
them  to  the  station." 

Bessie's  eyes  were  shining.  And  poor  Reuben 
thought  their  light  was  all  of  pride  alone. 

"  The  Church  of  the  Covenant !  Is  Stephen  to  be 
their  minister  ?  I  can  hardly  believe  it — I  was  there 
once  ;  and  I  never  saw  such  a  lot  of  rich  and  fashion- 
able people.  It  was  when  I  was  at  the  exhibition,  a 
year  ago  last  autumn.  It  must  be  splendid  to  live 
among  such  lovely  folks — does  Stephen  know  ?  "  and 
Bessie's  face  glowed  with  eager  interest. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  he  does,"  Reuben  answered, 
his  joy  in  his  brother  heightened  by  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  girl.  "  They're  going  to  give  him  a  regular 
call,  I  think ;  but  of  course  they'll  write  to  him  right 
away." 

"  I'll  tell  him  first " — and  Bessie's  chin  was  elevated 
after  a  deliciously  feminine  fashion — "  I'll  be  the  first 
to  tell  Stephen — I'll  put  it  in  my  letter ;  "  and  invol- 
untarily she  glanced  toward  the  window  that  a  min- 
ute ago  she  had  plunged  in  darkness. 

No  less  deep  was  the  darkness  that  clouded 
Reuben's  brow  as  her  last  words  fell  upon  his  ears. 
It  was  a  moment  before  their  full  significance  broke 
upon  him ;  and  the  tingling  gladness  of  a  moment 
before  was  now  a  tingling  pain. 

"  You'll  put  it  where,  Bessie  ?  "  he  asked ;  and  his 
tone  foreshadowed  the  answer  before  it  came. 


166  'THE    UNDERTOW 

"  I'll  put  it  in  my  letter,  Reuben,  as  I  said — my 
letter  to  Steve,"  she  added,  as  bravely  as  she  could ; 
though  her  voice  failed  her  a  little,  the  pleading  in 
his  honest  eyes  looking  into  eyes  that  longed  to  be 
as  honest  as  his  own. 

Her  admiration  of  his  distant  brother — and  of  his 
latest  triumph — gave  way  for  a  moment  before  some- 
thing like  to  reverence  for  the  greatness  of  this  strong 
loving  heart,  whose  love  and  strength  were  never 
more  apparent  than  now,  when  his  yearning  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her  own.  Here,  she  knew,  was  a 
pavilion-heart,  holy  in  its  unstained  love,  wherein 
she  might  find  shelter  till  all  life's  storm  was  past! 
Here  might  a  woman's  soul  soon  learn,  she  thought, 
to  forget  all  its  rival  love — to  renounce  all  its  am- 
bitious dreams.  And  yet — and  yet ! 

"  Bessie,"  Reuben  said  in  a  moment,  hoarseness  in 
his  voice.  "  Bessie,  were  you  writing  to  Steve  when 
I  called  you  ?  " 

The  girl's  eyes  fell  before  his  own — and  no  word 
was  needed.  Nor  was  any  spoken  for  a  long,  leaden 
minute. 

When  Bessie  looked  shyly  up  at  length,  she  saw 
the  moisture  in  Reuben's  eyes ;  and  a  new  pity  took 
its  place  within  her  heart. 

"  Rube,"  she  began,  "  he's  your  own  brother,"  a 
quick  light  on  her  face  indicating  her  hope  of  this 
tender  plea. 

But  Reuben  knew — and  the  vision  of  the  lighted 
window  was  still  before  his  mind.  The  inner  strug- 
gle was  swift  and  stern,  its  issue  soon  decided. 


A    LIGHT   in    The    WINDOW      167 

"  Bessie,"  he  began  presently,  his  lip  quivering  as 
he  spoke — "  Steve's  a  far  greater  man  than  I  am — 
and  better  too.  But  oh,  Bessie,  nobody  loves  you 
like  me — but  Steve's  worthier ;  and  I  don't  blame 
you,  Bessie — I  don't  blame  you.  And  I'm  going 
home.  Father'll  be  wanting  me.  Good-bye,  Bessie 
— I'm  going  home." 

He  started,  looking  back  as  he  went,  still  peering 
through  the  dark  into  the  pallid  face,  the  big  shining 
orbs  looking  wistfully  into  his  own.  Suddenly  he 
turns  his  away,  pressing  resolutely  forward,  the  dew 
gleaming  on  the  long  grass  as  he  went. 

She  can  just  hear  his  heavy  footfall  now.  And  to 
another  heart  the  struggle  of  a  moment  ago  is  trans- 
ferred. 

For  Bessie  has  looked  further  into  his  soul  than 
she  had  ever  looked  before ;  and  his  departure  had 
seemed  to  bring  him  near. 

His  shadowy  form  is  almost  lost  in  darkness, 
denser  than  it  was  a  moment  ago ;  the  distance  be- 
tween them  seems  strangely  great — the  ocean  not 
more  wide — and  a  different  loneliness  takes  posses- 
sion of  her. 

She  starts,  and  runs  a  few  steps  in  the  direction  he 
has  gone.  She  stops,  still  peering  eagerly.  Then 
she  tries  to  call  his  name — but  her  voice  refuses  to 
venture  far,  fearful  of  the  night. 

She  knows  he  is  almost  beyond  her  call ;  and  the 
voice  is  clearer  now  :  — 

"  Reuben,  oh,  Reuben,"  she  cries,  "  come  backf 
Reuben."  Then  she  waits,  declaring  to  herself  that 


168  THE    UNDERTOW 

he  could  not  hear  ;  and  that  he  would  not  answer  if 
he  did.  She  starts  violently,  for  a  sudden  noise  has 
fallen  on  her  ear.  It  comes  from  a  different  quarter ; 
and  Bessie's  first  impulse  is  to  fly  to  the  door  she  has 
left  ajar  behind  her.  But  there  is  no  time — for  the 
sound  is  distincter  now — and  she  can  make  out  some 
fluffy  thing,  tearing  toward  her  from  the  distant 
barn  with  sharp  yelps  of  recognition.  It  is  Tonko, 
welcome  in  the  darkness — and  the  girl  pets  him  as 
he  leaps  upon  her ;  "  that's  a  good  dog,  Tonko — good 
old  Tonko,"  she  murmured,  half  caressing  the  re- 
sponsive animal  beside  her.  Then  she  fell  to  listen- 
ing again,  bidding  the  dog  be  still — and  her  hand 
trembles  on  his  head ;  for  she  thinks  she  can  catch 
the  sound  of  distant  footsteps.  A  moment  longer 
she  listens — and  now  she  is  sure — sure  that  they  are 
hurrying  too — and  the  hot  blood  leaps  to  her  face. 

"  Go  home,  Tonko,"  she  orders  suddenly ;  "  go 
home,  I  say." 

Bessie  is  alone,  alone  in  the  night,  one  hand  tightly 
held  in  the  other  as  her  eyes  strain  to  detect  the  ob- 
ject of  her  search.  A  momentary  thought  of  Reuben's 
glowing  words — about  the  darkness — and  about  wait- 
ing for  another  to  come  to  you — flits  across  her 
mind  ;  and  she  herself  marvels  at  the  strange  eager- 
ness of  her  heart. 

The  footfall  is  distinct  now — and  in  a  moment 
Reuben  emerges  from  the  dark.  He  came  right  on 
till  he  stood  close  beside  her.  And  the  great  yearn- 
ing eyes  again  sought  her  face. 

"  You  called  me,  Bessie,"  he  said  quietly. 


A    LIGHT  in    The    WINDOW      169 

"  Yes,  Reuben — I  called  you,"  she  answered  ;  "  I 
called  you  back.  I  wanted  you  to  say  good-bye, 
Rube." 

"  To  say  good-bye  ?  "  he  repeated,  wonderingly. 
"  I  thought  I  did — I'm  sure  I  did,  Bessie,"  he  con- 
cluded confidently. 

Bessie  unconsciously  raised  her  hands  a  little,  as  if 
to  hold  them  forth — but  she  remembered — and  they 
hung  by  her  side.  Her  gaze  never  wandered  from 
his  face — but  her  lips  were  still. 

"  I  thought  I  said  good-bye — I  know  I  did," 
Reuben  repeated,  breaking  the  silence.  "  Was  that 
all  you  had  to  say  to  me,  Bessie  ?  " 

The  girl  still  stood,  looking  up  into  his  face.  Then 
she  spoke :  — 

"  Rube,  I  want  you  to  say  good-bye  to  me — I  want 
you  to  say  good-bye  to  me,  Reuben  " — and  the  great 
illumination  shone  out  from  her  glowing  face. 

The  man  felt  the  night  growing  bright  about  him  as 
he  understood ;  and  a  great  wave  of  surging  joy — the 
first  he  had  ever  tasted — seemed  rolling  to  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  Bessie,  Bessie,"  he  whispered,  looking  about 
him  one  moment  as  if  suspicious  of  the  dark  itself ; 
"  oh,  Bessie,  Bessie," — and  the  unresisting  form  is 
locked  in  the  clinging  arms,  the  fluttering  heart 
pressed  closely  to  his  own.  The  golden  hair,  pre- 
pared for  its  neglected  pillow,  falls  in  fugitive  strands 
on  his  own  neck  ;  and  he  feels,  but  does  not  under- 
stand, the  emotions  it  awakes  within  him. 

"  Bessie,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  tell  me,  Bessie,  my 
darling — was  it  for  that  you  called  me  back  ?  " 


170  THE    UNDERTOW 

But  his  only  answer  was  in  the  throbbing  heart, 
fluttering  closer  to  the  sheltering  heart  beside  it. 

"  Tell  me,  Bessie,"  he  pled  again;  "  tell  me  you're 
my  own  Bessie  forever," — he  sought  to  hold  her  out 
from  him  that  he  might  look  into  her  face  ;  but  she 
clung  close,  hiding  her  head  upon  his  shoulder — and 
the  answer  was  enough  for  Reuben's  long  hungering 
heart. 

"  You  are  cold,  my  darling,"  he  said  after  a  little  ; 
for  she  was  trembling  in  his  arms. 

"  I'm  not  cold,"  she  murmured — "  but  I  must  go 
in — come  with  me,  Reuben," — and  together  they  be- 
gan the  walk  which  Reuben's  singing  heart  declared 
should  be  the  long,  long  walk,  with  no  ending 
evermore. 

At  the  door,  Bessie  turned,  burying  her  face  in  its 
former  hiding  place. 

"  I  won't  send  that  letter,  Reuben,"  she  whispered ; 
so  faintly  that  he  could  hardly  hear ;  "  I'll  burn 
it  up." 

"  Don't,"  said  Reuben — "  I  trust  you,  Bessie ;  or, 
if  you  do,  send  another  to  Steve.  It  might  hurt  him 
if  you  didn't — Bessie,  my  darling ! "  And  again  he 
held  her  close.  "  Good- night,  my  dear  one — God 
bless  you,  my  Bessie." 

Looking  back  across  the  field,  he  saw  the  light  re- 
kindled in  the  room.  Still  gazing,  he  sees  another 
blaze — brighter  than  the  first.  It  has  died  out  in  a 
moment — and  he  understands.  Whereat  a  new  flame 
of  rapture  is  kindled  in  Reuben's  happy  heart. 


XIV 
A   HUMBLE  RIVAL 

ROBERT  WISHART  was  still  waiting  for  his 
son  when  the  latter  came  in  the  farmhouse 
door.  Various  duties  had  occupied  a  por- 
tion of  his  time,  the  rest  devoted  to  that  shoreless 
duty  which  furnished  the  comfort  and  inspiration  of 
his  life. 

The  open  Book  beside  him  spoke  its  character. 

"  Ye're  late,  my  laddie," — he  said  as  Reuben  en- 
tered— "  did  the  veesitors  get  awa'  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Reuben ;  "  at  least,  I  suppose 
they  did.  I  left  them  before  the  train  came  in — I've 
been  at  the  post-office,"  he  added  quickly ;  for  there 
was  much  time  to  be  accounted  for. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  old  man — "  and  did  ye  get  ony- 
thing  ?  There  wadna  be  ony  word  frae  Stephen,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  No,  there's  nothing  from  Steve,  father — but 
there's  a  letter,  though.  I  couldn't  make  out  the 
postmark — here  it  is." 

"  We'll  soon  find  oot  wha  it's  frae,"  his  father  said, 
tearing  the  envelope  open  as  he  spoke.  A  long 
silence  ensued  ;  for  the  old  man  was  not  so  nimble- 
eyed  as  he  once  had  been. 

"  It's  frae  Morven,"  he  said,  when  he  had  finished, 
171 


172  THE    UNDERTOW 

handing  the  letter  to  Reuben.  "  And  it's  for  Stephen 
— and  a  wee  bit  note  for  me,  askin'  me  to  read  it  my- 
sel'  and  send  it  furrit  to  him — it's  a  grand  letter,"  he 
concluded.  The  younger  man  was  not  long  in  mak- 
ing himself  master  of  its  contents ;  and  these  were 
soon  the  subject  of  eager  discussion  by  them  both. 

"  Seems  kind  of  strange  that  both  these  invitations 
should  have  come  the  same  day,"  Reuben  remarked ; 
"  the  one  from  the  big  city  church — and  the  other 
from  the  little  country  congregation — I  daresay  it 
won't  take  Stephen  long  to  make  up  his  mind  which 
to  accept." 

"  I  dinna  ken  aboot  that,"  returned  his  father,  nod- 
ding towards  the  letter.  "  Ye're  meanin'  he'll  tak  the 
Covenant  Kirk  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should  think  it  likely  he  will — it  seems  to 
have  many  advantages,  at  least,  that  one  wouldn't 
have  at  Morven.  Don't  you  think  he  will  ?  " 

"  There's  summat  to  be  said  aboot  the  Morven  ad- 
vantages tae  " — and  his  father  took  the  letter  in  his 
hand  as  he  spoke ;  "  it  depends  on  what  ye  ca'  an 
advantage,"  he  continued ;  "  it's  an  advantage  to  hae 
godly  folk  aboot  ye,  accordin'  to  my  way  o'  thinkin' 
— that's  what  he'd  hae  at  Morven,  judgin'  by  the  bit 
screed  they  send."  Then  the  old  man  read  the  letter 
aloud,  slowly,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end ;  paus- 
ing to  make  the  necessary  comments. 

"  That's  a  fine  bit : — '  We  want  you  to  come  to  us 
in  the  power  of  the  Gospel  and  we  pray  that  such 
may  be  your  portion  wherever  you  may  exercise  your 
ministry ' — isna  that  fair  graund,"  demanded  the  old 


A    HUMBLE    RIVAL  173 

man,  with  radiant  face — "  that's  the  auld  way  o'  put- 
tin'  thae  things — it  minds  me  o'  Samuel  Rutherford's 
letters.  Did  ye  tak  notice  to  the  phraseology  o'  thae 
men  frae  the  city  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Reuben,  smiling  at  his  father's  inten- 
sity. "  What  did  they  say^?  " 

" '  Exercise  yir  ministry,'  "  his  father  mused,  re- 
peating the  words  upon  which  his  forefinger  lay — 
"  that's  fine — that's  what  thae  ither  men  was  meanin' 
when  they  said  it  took  a  smart  man  to  run  their  kirk 
— '  run  their  kirk,'  mind  ye," — he  went  on,  looking 
up  at  Reuben — "  '  run  their  kirk ' — that's  the  new- 
way — they  tell  me  they  dae  their  coortin'  noo  wi'  yin 
o'  thae  clatterin'  machines  for  writin'  letters.  Mair 
o'  their  pole-ish,  I  suppose." 

"  You're  thinking  of  those  typewriting  machines, 
father — they're  going  to  get  one  at  the  store.  But 
what  on  earth  have  they  to  do  with  running  a  kirk  ?  " 
Reuben  answered,  laughing. 

"  Machinnery  !  "  the  elder  responded  vigorously — 
"  it's  a'  machinnery  these  days — they've  got  machin- 
nery  for  the  sacrament  itsel' — they  and  their  indi- 
veedual  cups  !  Machinnery  everywhere !  And  the 
poor  folk  o'  Morven  has  naethin' — naethin'  but  the 
Holy  Ghost" — he  concluded,  nodding  toward  the 
letter  from  which  the  closing  words  were  quoted. 

"  It  certainly  is  a  lovely,  cordial  letter,"  began 
Reuben;  "I'm  sure  they're  kind-hearted  people;  a 
minister  would  find " 

"  Licht  the  ither  lamp,  Reuben,"  his  father  sud- 
denly broke  in — "  and  get  the  pen  an'  ink  off  the 


174  THE    UNDERTOW 

clock.  I'll  write  to  Stephen  the  nicht — it's  no*  sae 
late.  Ye'll  write  it  for  me,  Reuben ;  an'  I'll  gie  ye 
the  points — my  hand's  ower  shaky." 

"What  are  you  going  to  tell  him,  father  ?  How 
will  you  advise  him,  I  mean  ?  "  his  son  asked,  as  he 
prepared  for  the  important  ceremony. 

"  Ye'll  mebbe  be  able  to  mak'  that  oot  as  we  gang 
alang,"  the  old  man  replied  with  great  gravity. 

"  All  right,  father — I'm  ready — what'll  I  say  ?  " 

"  Tell  him  I'm  livin'  an'  weel — juist  look  aroon  at 
me  as  ye  get  it  doon." 

Reuben  recorded  this  important  initial  fact. 

"  Tell  him  the  crops  is  likely  to  be  fine — the 
weather's  no'  been  agreeable  to  a'  the  folks — but  it's 
pleasin'  to  the  Almichty — get  ye  that  doon  ex- 
actly." 

"  I  have  it  down,  father — Stephen  won't  be  partic- 
ularly interested  in  that,  though.  Don't  you  think 
we'd  better  get  to  the  point? " 

The  old  Scotchman  set  his  lips,  grimly  smiling  be- 
hind Reuben's  chair.  "  That's  the  introduction,"  he 
retorted  firmly — "  it'll  prepare  him.  Tell  him  I  broke 
the  iron  bootjack  his  grandfaither  made — my  boots 
was  wet  wi'  the  rain — but  the  smith  mendit  it  as  guid 
as  new.  He'll  find  it  refreshin'  to  hear  o'  thae  com- 
mon things  again — they'll  be  undressin'  wi'  machin- 
nery  i'  the  city.  Hae  ye  got  it  doon  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  amanuensis,  concealing  his  amuse- 
ment ;  "  it's  all  down.  Shall  I  tell  him  about  the 
groundhog  you  fired  at  and  missed  ?  " 

"  Dinna  be  sae  frivolous,  Reuben.     It's  no'  a  time 


A    HUMBLE    RIYAL  175 

for  jokin' — it's  a  serious  maitter,  choosin  yir'  place  i' 
the  vineyard  o'  the  Lord — an'  the  powder  was  bad, 
forbye — that  stuff  they  mak'  nooadays  is  guid  for 
naethin'." 

"  I  have  it  down,  father.     What  next  ?  " 

"  Ye  dinna  mean  aboot  the  grunhog — that's  a  mait- 
ter o'  nae  importance." 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not — the  last  important  thing 
I  wrote  was  about  the  bootjack.  What's  next?" 
Reuben  asked,  regulating  his  features  by  vicious 
gnawing  at  the  pen-handle. 

"  Tell  him  aboot  thae  men  that  cam'  to  ye  at  the 
pleugh  the  day.  Tell't  yir  ain  way — a'  aboot  how 
they  cam'  to  the  hoose — an'  what  they  said  to  me — 
an'  aboot  their  kirk.  Ye  ken  it  a' — set  it  a'  doon, 
Reuben  ;  I'll  wait  till  ye're  through." 

The  earnest  dictator  flung  two  or  three  fresh 
chunks  of  wood  upon  the  fire,  startled  into  sparkling 
protest  by  the  strange  proceeding ;  for,  like  those 
who  sought  its  cheery  company,  such  an  hour  as  this 
usually  found  it  blinking  its  way  to  the  realm  of 
dreams.  But  it  was  soon  as  wide  awake  as  ever,  be- 
guiled from  its  drowsy  mood  by  the  long  familiar 
hand. 

Robert  Wishart  clapped  the  wood-dust  from  his 
fingers,  reached  forth  to  the  mantel  for  his  an- 
cestral pipe,  and  looked  defiantly  at  the  clock ;  for 
its  heightening  tone,  taking  advantage  of  the  silence, 
betokened  that  it  too  felt  the  same  shock  of  wonder 
and  surprise  as  had  agitated  its  more  explosive  com- 
panion of  the  hearth.  And  the  latter,  catching  the 


176  THE    UNDERTOW 

sympathetic  note,  broke  into  comment  more  fiery 
than  before. 

For  these  were  age-old  friends — the  fire  and  the 
clock — each  looking  into  the  other's  face  while  year 
came  slowly  after  year.  And  in  each  other's  eyes 
alone  they  found  no  sign  of  age  or  weariness,  smiling 
back  the  one  to  the  other  in  unwrinkling  freshness, 
while  face  after  face  departed,  stamped  with  the  hand 
of  time  and  with  the  seal  of  care. 

And  many  a  colloquy  had  they  had  together — 
these  trusted  servants — after  their  masters  had  sought 
their  rest.  Many  a  long  talk  in  the  old  kitchen — no 
other  voice  mingling  with  their  own — the  shadows 
having  their  recreation,  too,  playing  hide  and  seek 
about  the  room  like  happy  school-boys,  while  these 
two  monitors  held  grave  discourse  upon  the  human 
friends  whose  heavy  breathing  could  be  heard  above 
them.  Their  enterprises,  their  failures,  their  virtues, 
their  foibles  too — all  these  had  they  discussed,  the 
clock  playing  the  senior  part;  for  it  had  been  old 
when  the  new-born  fire  first  saw  the  dark,  hailing  it 
an  enemy,  as  well-bred  fires  ever  do.  And,  strange 
to  say,  it  was  the  younger  that  always  tired  first,  the 
older  noting  by  and  by  how  drowsily  it  answered  ; 
then  would  it  chime  its  mellow  lullaby,  and  go  all 
alone  upon  its  vigil  way.  All  alone — for  the  shad- 
ows were  the  children  of  the  fire,  and  crept  one  by 
one  into  their  mother's  bed. 

"  Hae  ye  that  doon  ?  "  resumed  Reuben's  father, 
the  scraping  of  the  pen  coming  to  a  sudden  si- 
lence. 


A    HUMBLE    RIYAL  177 

"  Yes,  father ;  I've  told  it  as  well  as  I  can — the 
pen's  not  good  for  much.  What  comes  next  ?" 

"  It'll  dae  my  time — tell  him  to  read  what  the 
Morven  folk  say — to  read  it  carefu' ;  their  letter'll  be 
inside  his  ain." 

Another  brief  silence  followed.  The  writer  looked 
around. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  he  said. 

"No,"  responded  his  father;  "ye  tell't  him  a' 
aboot  thae  men  frae  the  city,  did  ye  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  told  him  about  their  coming  here — and 
about  their  church." 

"  Did  ye  tell  him  they  call  it  the  Kirk  o'  the  Cove- 
nant ?  "  he  pursued. 

"  Yes,  I  mentioned  it — I  suppose  he  likely  knows 
that  already." 

"  Weel ;  tell  him  I'm  dootin'  they  think  mair 
aboot  their  kirk  as  they  dae  aboot  the  covenant." 

"  What's  that,  father  ?  "  Reuben  asked,  in  mild  as- 
tonishment. 

"  It's  what  I'm  tellin'  ye.  Yon's  a  great  name — 
the  covenant  name — it  has  martyr  bluid.  An'  they're 
playin'  wi't,  I'm  dootin' " — answered  his  father,  no 
sign  of  compromise  in  his  voice. 

"  Very  well ;  I'll  write  what  you  say  " — and  Reu- 
ben recorded  the  opinion. 

"  Tell  him  the  stipend  they  pay  i'  the  city  kirk — 
they  mentioned  it  ten  times  or  mair." 

"  I  did  tell  him  that,"  answered  Reuben. 

"  Tell  him  to  mind  the  rich  fule — an'  tell  him  a 
man's  life  is  no'  i'  his  pocketbook — an'  tell  him  what 


178  THE    UNDERTOW 

does  it  profit  a  man  to  gain  the  whole  world  an'  lose 
his  ain  soul." 

"  Tell  him  aboot  their  sacrament — how  ilka  man 
has  a  wee  mug  to  himsel'.  That'll  settle  Stephen, 
I'm  thinkin'.  An'  tell  him  Sandy  Forsyth  tell't 
me  he  saw  twa  or  three  o'  them  kneelin'  doon  i'  the 
kirk — they  had  wee  cushions  to  keep  the  dust  frae 
their  fine  breeks,  he  said.  An'  the  street  cars  was 
dingin'  and  dongin'  back  an'  furrit  afore  the  kirk 
door  on  the  Lord's  day — dinna  forget  to  tell  him 
that." 

The  scribe  pressed  on  in  silence,  recording  one  by 
one  the  grim  details. 

"  That's  finished,  father.  It's  a  pretty  long  letter 
— is  that  all  ?  "  he  said,  presently. 

"  Not  quite — tell  him  their  singers,  the  men  bud- 
dies, leastways,  wears  yin  o*  thae  coats  wi'  tails  that 
droop  like  a  turkey  gobbler's  i'  the  rain.  An'  they 
wear  them  i'  the  kirk — an'  tell  him  they  gie  them  an 
awfu'  heap  o'  money  for  their  screechin' — aboot  a 
shillin'  a  yelp,  they  tell  me — put  ye  that  doon,  Reu- 
ben." 

"  All  right,  father — I'll  tell  him  they  have  paid 
singers.  He'll  understand  the  rest — he's  surely  heard 
them  himself.  Shall  I  close  the  letter  now  ?  " 

"  Juist  ae  word  mair — say  as  how  they're  a  godly 
folk  at  Morven ;  an'  tell  him  they  hae  a  precentor 
wi'  the  fear  o'  God  in  his  heart — an'  a  tunin'  fork  in 
his  hand — an'  a  decent  black  coat  on  his  back. 
Noo,  I'll  sign  it — gie  me  the  pen  when  ye  get  that 
doon." 


A    HUMBLE    RIVAL  179 

Which  he  straightway  took  in  his  rather  shaky 
hand,  settling  himself  carefully  in  the  chair,  one  foot 
poised  on  tip-toe  behind  the  backmost  rung,  his 
tongue  duly  appearing,  witness  for  fifty  years  to  his 
every  signature.  The  operation  was  in  time  duly 
performed,  then  lavishly  attested  by  a  subordinate 
flourish,  drawn  with  mathematical  exactitude,  and 
knotted  at  the  heart  by  two  ponderous  strokes. 

Reuben-had  folded  the  letter  and  enclosed  it  in  the 
envelope  ;  which  he  was  about  to  seal  when  his  father 
interrupted :  — 

"  Reuben,  is  yin  o'  thae  paste  things  ony  harm, 
think  ye  ?  " 

"  One  of  what  ?  "  asked  Reuben,  bewildered. 

"  Yin  o'  thae  paste  things  they  put  at  the  hinner 
end  o'  a  letter.  I  dinna  ken  if  onybody  uses  them 
but  wumman  buddies.  Brownie  Barrie  got  yin  o' 
them  frae  a  summer  boarder,  yon  weedow  buddy — 
wi*  the  lang  veil  an'  the  short  face,  ye  mind.  An* 
Brownie  tell't  me  it  meant  'paste  something' — I 
dinna  mind  exactly  what." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  laughed  Reuben  ;  "  of  course — it's 
'postscript'  you're  thinking  of.  Yes,  it's  all  right 
— if  you  want  one." 

"  Aye,  that's  it — « scrapit,'  Brownie  ca'd  it — he  said 
'twas  referrin'  till  the  pen.  It's  a  bonny  way  o' 
feenishin' — it's  like  haein'  anither  wee  bit  meat  put 
on  yir  plate  after  ye've  been  helpit."  And  the  old 
man  smiled  at  the  success  of  his  homely  illustration. 

"  That's  about  what  it  is,  father.  Let's  have  it,  and 
I'll  scrape  it  down,  as  Brownie  said,"  returned  the 


i8o  THE    UNDERTOW 

cheerful  scribe,  removing  the  letter  from  its  en- 
velope. 

"  Put  it  foment  the  name,"  said  his  father,  pointing 
to  the  hard-won  signature. 

"  All  right.     What  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

"  Hae  ye  the  twa  letters  set  doon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they're  both  here — «  P.  S.,'  see  ?  " 

"  Weel,  put  this  after  them : — '  Yir  mither's  mebbe 
watchin'  ye.' " 

Reuben  wrote  the  words,  a  dim  mist  before  him, 
like  to  that  which  bedewed  his  father's  eyes. 

"  Now,  I'll  seal  the  letter,  shall  I,  father  ?  " 

"  There's  nae  hurry ;  leave  it  till  the  morn,"  an- 
swered the  other. 

When  the  morning  came,  Reuben  again  drove  his 
team  afield,  resuming  the  interrupted  labour  of  the 
day  before.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  his  father  took 
down  the  old  gun  from  the  rack  and  burrowed  in  an 
ancient  chest  till  his  quest  was  rewarded  with  a 
powder  horn  that  bore  a  Kelso  name;  then  he 
stealthily  set  forth  across  the  fields.  He  returned 
about  noon  and  quietly  replaced  the  gun. 

He  poised  himself  upon  the  chair,  as  previously 
described,  took  the  letter  from  its  cover,  glanced  at 
the  postscript — and  shook  his  head.  That  was  evi- 
dently not  the  proper  place.  His  eye  roamed  over 
the  manuscript  until  it  fell  upon  a  fairly  generous 
space  at  the  top  of  the  opening  page.  Whereupon, 
with  many  a  contortion,  he  inscribed  : — "  My  sicht's 
as  guid  as  ever.  I  kill't  a  grunhog  at  forty  yard  the 
day.  R.  W." 


XV 
THE   GENERAL  And   The   WAR 

THE  week  was  drawing  toward  its  closing 
hours,  that  week  whose  crown  and  glory 
was  to  be  Hattie's  solo  at  the  army  service. 
Once  during  its  course  had  Stephen  met  with  her,  a 
long  walk  affording  him  a  yet  fuller  glimpse  of  the 
nature  whose  richness  he  found  so  grateful  to  his  own. 

For  Hattie  was  ripening  in  the  sunshine.  "  I  feel  as  if 
the  spring-time  had  come  to  me,"  she  had  said  as  they 
strolled  along  together,  "  and  there's  nothing  makes 
one  so  happy  as  not  trying  to  be  happy,  but  just  try- 
ing to  help  somebody  else,"  which  very  words 
Stephen  was  pondering  as  he  prepared  to  set  forth  to 
Poplar — and  to  Poplar's  song. 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  two 
letters  were  handed  to  him.  Strangely  enough,  they 
had  arrived  together,  the  communication  from  Ham- 
ilton about  the  Church  of  the  Covenant,  and  the  ap- 
peal from  Morven,  enclosed  with  his  father's  quaint 
and  sage  epistle.  Sudden  rapture  seized  his  heart  as 
it  grasped  the  portent  of  the  honour  the  city  church 
had  done  him,  tempered  but  slightly  by  the  claims  of 
the  smaller  congregation  or  by  the  admonitions  of 
his  father.  He  will  answer  these  letters  soon,  he  said 
to  himself,  the  one  to  Hamilton  to  be  written  first. 

181 


182  THE    UNDERTOW 

But  meantime,  his  engagement  at  Poplar  was  draw- 
ing nigh  :  and,  within  half  an  hour,  he  had  presented 
himself  at  the  oft-opening  door  of  the  Army  Home. 

"  You're  in  great  good  fortune,"  one  of  the  soldiers 
said  to  him  as  he  presented  his  card — "  the  General's 
going  through  the  Home  this  evening — we  just  got 
word  of  it  a  few  minutes  ago.  We  never  know  when 
he  may  drop  in,  though  he's  the  busiest  man  in  Lon- 
don and  doesn't  get  around  very  often." 

"  The  General !  "  Stephen  cried  delightedly.  "  I'm 
in  luck  sure  enough — will  I  meet  him,  do  you 
think  ?  " 

"  Certainly — the  Commander's  with  him ;  shouldn't 
wonder  if  she's  the  one  that's  bringing  him  down. 
She  seemed  to  take  a  great  fancy  to  this  lady  friend 
of  yours." 

At  which  point  the  conversation  was  interrupted 
by  the  advent  of  this  selfsame  lady  friend,  who  sud- 
denly emerged  from  an  inner  room,  carrying  a  huge 
bowl  of  bread  and  milk.  She  smiled  at  Stephen. 
"  You're  in  good  time,"  she  said — "  and  I'm  so  glad 
you  came.  Just  excuse  me  a  moment  till  I  take  this 
out  to  that  big  room  there.  It's  a  woman  with  a 
little  baby." 

Stephen  noted  in  amazement  the  change  in  Hattie's 
appearance ;  her  former  garb  had  been  removed,  and 
in  its  place  she  had  assumed  the  uniform  of  the  great 
army  to  whose  midnight  tent  she  had  turned  for 
shelter.  More  fascinating  than  before,  she  appeared, 
in  this  new  guise  she  had  adopted,  its  honest  blue 
according  well  with  her  delicate  complexion,  her 


THE  GENERAL  And  The   WAR.          183 

sunny  hair  showing  fair  against  its  darkness.  The 
significant  letters  were  upon  her  shoulder,  the  little 
steel  chain  still  to  be  seen  upon  her  neck,  its  ap- 
pended burden  hidden  beneath  her  dress. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  come  and  see  the  baby  ?  "  she 
laughed,  disappearing  while  Stephen  waited,  too  em- 
barrassed to  reply.  But  a  few  moments  had  passed, 
however,  when  he  followed  her  into  the  large  room 
whither  she  had  gone.  A  pretty  sight  greeted  him. 
The  mother — not  more  than  eighteen  years  the  senior 
of  her  child — was  standing  back  a  little,  rapt  in  the 
contemplation  of  her  offspring,  warmed  to  the  heart 
by  the  evidence  of  its  comfort,  especially  enraptured 
by  this  token  of  interest  from  one  whose  face  and 
mien  bespoke  the  superiority  of  her  station.  For 
Hattie  had  the  baby  in  her  arms ;  or,  at  least,  in  her 
left  arm,  the  right  disengaged  for  the  service  in  which 
it  was  employed.  Her  face  shone  as  she  watched  the 
hungry  infant,  so  pathetically  abandoned  to  the  long- 
lacked  luxury  of  an  abundant  meal,  careless  alike  as 
to  whence  it  came  or  the  improbability  of  its  being 
soon  repeated.  It  cared  for  nothing  but  the  blissful 
fact  of  present  favour  ;  for  which  favour  it  seemed  to 
feel  under  obligation  to  nobody,  smacking  its  lips  in 
complacent  satisfaction,  craning  its  neck  to  meet  each 
returning  spoonful,  sounding  an  initial  note  of  pro- 
test when  the  interval  was  accidentally  prolonged. 

When  he  regained  the  outer  hall,  high  excitement 
met  him  everywhere.  Everything  put  to  rights, 
spickness  and  spanness  on  every  hand,  betokened  ex- 
pectation of  some  unusual  guest. 


1 84  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  The  General's  here,"  announced  his  former  in- 
formant in  an  undertone.  "  There  he  is  now — com- 
ing in  with  the  Commander." 

Stephen  turned  his  gaze  toward  the  door ;  and  it 
fell  upon  one  of  the  conspicuous  figures  of  the  cen- 
tury. The  General  had  just  entered  and  was  looking 
genially  about,  his  air  that  of  one  returning  from  a 
far  journey,  who  had  left  his  house,  and  had  given 
authority  to  his  servants,  and  to  every  man  his  work, 
and  commanded  the  porter  to  watch.  His  expression 
was  that  of  a  proprietor,  a  kindly  proprietor,  it  is 
true — but  the  ruling  spirit  of  the  institution  he  had 
so  animated  by  his  advent.  Eagle-eyed,  there  was  yet 
something  in  his  face  that  betrayed  the  tenderness  of 
which  his  fame  is  born. 

The  glance  which  Stephen  saw  him  cast  about  the 
place  seemed  to  fall  like  lightning  on  every  part, 
searching  every  corner,  laying  bare  its  every  feature ; 
yet  it  seemed  to  be  altogether — or  almost  altogether 
— centred  on  the  unhappy  mortals  who  had  come 
crouching  to  the  door.  His  stalwart  frame,  borne 
with  the  easy  dignity  that  belongs  only  to  the  soldier 
heart ;  and  his  strong  and  rugged  face — more  striking 
because  of  the  hair  of  iron-gray  and  the  beard  of 
flowing  white — made  it  easier  to  understand  how  the 
world  had  taken  kindly  to  his  military  title,  presump- 
tuous and  high  sounding  though  it  be.  The  true 
soldier  spirit — an  admixture  of  strength  and  gentle- 
ness— looked  out  from  the  picturesque  face  toward 
which  every  eye  was  turned  ;  for  he  seemed  to  expect, 
as  he  certainly  received,  the  homage  of  every  heart 


THE  GENERAL  And   The   WAR          185 

that  had  come  to  receive  his  benefaction  or  hastened 
to  obey  his  word.  Salute  after  salute  was  promptly 
returned ;  with  some  of  those  nearest  to  him  he  shook 
hands  in  hearty  greeting. 

"  There's  the  girl  I  was  telling  you  about,  father 
— there,  that  one  with  the  fair  hair — just  coming 
through  that  door.  Isn't  she  sweet  ?  " 

The  General  smiled  as  his  glance  followed  his 
daughter's.  Not  over  sanguine  was  the  smile ;  for 
the  old  soldier  was  not  easily  beguiled  by  sunny  looks 
and  winsome  faces,  so  many  of  which  had  but 
awakened  his  deeper  pity. 

"  Is  the  grace  of  God  in  her  heart,  my  child  ?  "  he 
asked ;  and  Stephen  could  just  overhear  the  words. 
He  could  not  analyze  the  effect — but  he  was  im- 
pressed and  charmed  by  the  reality  of  the  tone, 
though  he  could  not  have  told  what  was  so  effective 
about  the  simple  speech.  The  General  had  asked  this 
information  as  a  teacher  might  have  enquired  for  his 
pupil's  standing,  or  a  physician  for  his  patient's 
state. 

He  strained  his  ears  to  catch  the  Commander's  an- 
swer : — 

"  Oh,  yes,  father,  I'm  sure  she's  all  right  that  way. 
I  had  a  long  talk  with  her ;  we  didn't  speak  much 
about  those  things — but  she  told  me  about  her  mother. 
She  said  she  sang  to  her  when  she  was  dying;  and 
some  other " 

"  What  did  she  sing  ?  "  the  General  interrupted 
abruptly,  his  piercing  eyes  fixed  on  Hattie  rather 
than  on  his  daughter. 


186  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Really,  I've  almost  forgotten — oh,  yes,  it  was <  the 

Wondrous  Cross  ' ;  I  remember  now — and " 

The  Commander  went  on  with  her  story ;  but  the 
General  did  not  seem  to  hear.  Far  off  and  absorbed 
was  the  look  that  suddenly  came  into  the  powerful 
eyes,  and  a  musing  smile  played  on  the  warlike  face. 

"  The  Wondrous  Cross,"  he  murmured ;  "  there's 
really  nothing  else  to  sing.  What  a  marvellous  ex- 
pression, '  the  Wondrous  Cross ;  the  WTondrous 
Cross  ' !  Bring  the  girl  here,  daughter — she  looks 
confused,"  he  said  aloud. 

As  undoubtedly  she  did ;  for  poor  Hattie  had  marked 
that  the  General's  eye  was  resting  full  upon  herself. 
That  it  saw  her  not,  she  might  not  know ;  nor  the 
great  reverie  that  explained  its  almost  rigid  gaze. 
She  felt  the  power  of  its  spell,  however,  unconsciously 
surrendering  to  the  giant  soul  that  looked  out  from  it 
like  some  hero  from  the  window  of  a  tower.  She 
half  realized  that  one  of  earth's  greatest  was  before 
her ;  for  it  is  the  pure  in  heart  that  are  the  quickest  to 
descry  God's  true  lieutenants,  as  it  is  they  who  behold 
Himself. 

The  Commander,  beckoning,  took  a  step  or  two 

toward  her : — "  Come  away,  miss I've  forgotten 

the  name.  But  I  don't  need  it  anyway — come  here, 
Hattie.  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  the  General." 

Hattie  stepped  timidly  forward,  the  empty  bowl 
still  in  her  hand ;  her  very  arm,  bare  to  the  elbow, 
telling  forth  the  embarrassment  she  could  not  hide. 
The  Commander  presented  her  to  the  General,  who 
took  her  hand  in  his,  nor  released  it  while  he  spoke. 


THE  GENERAL  And   The   WAR          187 

"  Hattie,  eh  ?  What  is  your  other  name  ?  '  Hattie 
Hastie,'  what  a  pretty  name !  They'll  be  glad  to 
have  it  in  the  Book  of  life,  won't  they  ? "  he  said 
smiling,  yet  with  nothing  but  earnestness  in  his  voice. 
"  What's  this  ?  "  he  enquired,  looking  at  the  empty 
dish  in  Hattie's  other  hand. 

"  It's  a  bowl,  sir,"  the  girl  answered,  looking  shyly 
up  at  the  beetling  brow  and  the  kindly  eyes  above 
her — "  I  was  giving  some  bread  and  milk  to  a  baby." 

"  That's  a  true  soldier,"  the  deep  voice  returned ; 
"looking  after  the  wounded — and  if  a  cup  of  cold 
water  gets  its  reward,  what  won't  it  be  for  a  bowl  of 
bread  and  milk  ? "  he  continued,  as  he  released  his 
hold. 

Hattie  was  about  to  press  on  with  her  burden,  her 
shyness  retreating  like  mist  before  the  sunshine  of 
those  earnest  eyes,  when  the  Commander  asked : — 
"  Where  is  your  friend,  Hattie — the  one  you  were 
going  to  bring  to  meet  me,  you  know?  " 

"  There  he  is,"  Hattie  answered,  pointing  to  where 
Stephen  stood  beside  a  couple  of  the  soldiers — 
"  over  there  by  the  desk.  May  I  present  him  now  ?  " 

Which  was  immediately  accomplished,  the  Com- 
mander bidding  him  a  gracious  welcome,  and  the 
General  proceeding  to  further  examination. 

"  What's  the  name,  again  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Wishart — Stephen  Wishart,"  answered  the  young 
minister.  Then  he  added  a  word  or  two. 

"  Oh,  you're  a  clergyman  ?  Isn't  that  good  ? 
You're  not  very  clerically  dressed,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  on  a  holiday,"  answered  Stephen,  smiling. 


1 88  THE    UNDERTOW 

The  General's  eyes  twinkled.  "  Dangerous  things, 
these  holidays,"  he  said ;  "  I  never  risk  any  myself — 
haven't  for  thirty  years.  Well,  my  boy,  if  you're  less 
clerical  outside,  try  and  be  more  clerical  inside — that 
was  my  principle  when  I  doffed  the  black  and 
donned  the  blue.  You  know  I'm  a  minister — even  if 
I'm  not  a  reverend  any  more;  that  went  with  the 
black,  when  the  blue  swallowed  it  up — '  mortality 
swallowed  up  of  life,'  eh  ?  "  he  suggested  laughing. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  ventured  Stephen ; 
"  you  see,  I'm  a  minister  of  what's  really  the  ancient 
Church  of  Scotland.  So  I've  more  or  less  of  the  ec- 
clesiastic in  me." 

"  Never  mind  the  ancient  church," — the  General 
broke  in — "  London's  heart  is  rotting  while  many 
who  should  be  her  spiritual  leaders  are  delving  and 
disputing,  trying  to  make  a  coupling  with  the  ancient 
church — and  trying  to  uncouple  everybody  else.  It's 
all  moonshine.  Give  me  the  living  dog  and  they  can 
have  their  dead  lion.  If  I  can  get  a  slice  of  apostolic 
success,  they're  welcome  to  their  apostolic  succes- 
sion— are  you  settled  over  a  church  yet  ?  "  he  di- 
gressed. 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  responded  Stephen ;  "  but  I've  had 
a  couple  of  calls  ;  and  I  wish  you'd  give  me  your  ad- 
vice— I'd  like  to  tell  you  about  them  both." 

"  All  right,  I'll  be  glad  to  hear  about  them.  But 
meanwhile  come  away  in  with  us  and  have  a  bite  of 
supper.  I  always  dine  with  the  officers  at  the  differ- 
ent branches  when  I  get  a  chance — come  away." 

Which  Stephen  was  glad  to  do,  following  the  Gen- 


THE  GENERAL  And  The   WAR          189 

eral  to  an  adjoining  room  where  they  found  the 
others  already  gathered,  awaiting  his  arrival. 

"  Who's  to  do  the  speaking  to-night  at  the  women's 
meeting,  daughter  ?  "  the  General  presently  enquired. 
"  You're  not  going  to  put  all  the  work  on  the  old 
man,  are  you  ?  " 

"  No,  we're  not,"  replied  his  daughter,  "  although 
we  always  expect  a  few  words  from  you,  you  know. 
But  we're  to  have  an  address  from  the  Reverend 
./Emilius  Cosgrove ;  he's  a  Professor  of  Exegesis  in 
some  college  in  Canada,  and  he  brought  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  Commissioner  Coombes.  He 
wanted  to  study  the  work,  he  said,  and  he  said  too 
that  he'd  like  to  address  the  women.  So  we'll  have 
you  both." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  arose  and  went  all  to- 
gether to  the  spacious  room,  already  nearly  filled  with 
the  picturesque  congregation  that  was  to  form  their 
audience.  Some  were  standing  by  in  sullen  misery  ; 
some,  engrossed  with  ragged  skirts  they  were  dumbly 
pretending  to  repair;  some  were  arranging  dishev- 
elled locks  ;  while  others  were  still  greedily  engaged 
on  the  thick  slices  of  bread  and  butter  which  had 
been  given  them.  A  few  more  lightsome  spirits 
were  employed  in  conversation,  broken  by  the  shrill 
cacophony  of  heartless  laughter. 

But  the  most  interesting  of  all — and  most  redemp- 
tive of  the  womanhood  that  seemed  all  bruised  and 
stained  about  them — were  those  who  had  wandered 
in,  carrying  infant  children  in  their  arms.  Even  the 
most  degraded  of  these,  Stephen  could  not  fail  to 


190  THE    UNDERTOW 

notice,  had  tender  softness  in  their  faces  ;  and  some- 
thing like  music  in  the  voices  that  whispered  the  old 
sweet  nothings  to  the  babes  upon  their  breasts,  sin- 
begotten  though  they  were. 

And  some  were  nourishing  their  offspring  at  their 
bosoms,  the  hard  and  sin-stained  faces  bearing  the 
light  of  peace  the  while — even  of  a  fleeting  purity — 
as  though  the  baby  lips  were  drawing  the  poison 
from  the  wound. 

Like  blighted  trees  they  seemed,  lightning  riven, 
stark  and  bare  and  frowning  amid  wintry  winds  ;  yet 
with  one  redeeming  blossom,  significant  of  the  salva- 
tion with  which  they  might  be  even  yet  redeemed. 
For  the  light  of  heaven  played  upon  the  solitary 
bloom,  spreading  its  caress  about  the  frowning 
trunk,  sweetly  whispering  that  its  spring-time  too  was 
not  forever  past. 

Stephen  gazed  long  upon  the  unfamiliar  spectacle, 
his  eyes  wet  with  tears  as  he  beheld  the  great  passion 
which  sin  and  struggling  poverty  had  been  power- 
less to  destroy.  His  heart  swelled  with  emotion  as 
he  remarked  how  more  than  one  of  the  poor  wastrels 
laughed  with  fond  gladness  as  she  looked  into  her 
baby's  face,  or  clasped  it  in  a  spasm  of  tenderness  to 
her  heart. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  the  General  beside  him. 
The  latter,  too,  was  watching  the  scene  intently ;  and 
an  observer  would  have  said  that  he  had  never  wit- 
nessed it  before.  For  his  eye  was  eloquent  of  pity 
as  he  looked,  even  of  fondness  ;  and  the  almost  im- 
perceptible quiver  of  the  strong  lip  lit  up  the  rugged 


THE  GENERAL  And  The   WAR          191 

face  with  its  great  suggestion,  as  the  gentle  lightning 
of  the  spring  lights  up  some  noble  promontory. 

The  thought  flashed  swiftly  through  Stephen's 
mind  that  he  was  beholding  the  secret  of  this  great 
man's  power — his  helplessness  before  distress,  his 
chivalric  pity  for  the  wounded,  his  Godlike  search  for 
outcast  royalty,  his  sensitive  perception  of  the  ro- 
mantic side  that  belongs  even  to  the  grossest  sin  and 
the  most  despairing  sorrow. 

The  General's  eye  met  his  own.  "  Isn't  that 
beautiful  ? "  he  said,  pointing  in  one  or  two  direc- 
tions ;  "  they  often  wonder  why  I  don't  get  old,"  he 
continued,  "  but  they  wouldn't  wonder  if  they  knew 
all  I  see  that  keeps  the  heart  young."  And  Stephen 
marvelled  at  the  absolute  gentleness  that  was  on 
the  rugged  face  as  it  looked  out  upon  the  motley 
throng. 

"  If  a  man  doesn't  feel  the  spirit  of  Christ  here,  I 
don't  know  where  he  will,"  the  veteran  concluded. 

"  You're  right,  sir,"  answered  Stephen,  his  own 
voice  shaking  a  little ;  "  I'd  love  to  be  able  to  help 
those  poor  creatures — I  pity  them  so." 

"  I  love  them,"  the  other  exclaimed  abruptly  ;  "  we 
read  of  One  who  had  compassion  on  the  multitude — 
that  doesn't  mean  mere  pity,  sir ;  it  means  love,  pure 
love.  And  if  you  want  to  be  a  successful  minister, 
or  a  happy  one — which  is  the  same  thing — pray  for 
love,  love  for  souls — and  the  most  love  for  the  worst 
ones.  When  God  wants  to  draw  His  servants  very 
close,  He  baits  His  hook  with  the  vilest  sinner  He  can 
find.  If  you  jump  at  that,  you'll  get  your  reward, 


192  THE    UNDERTOW 

my  son — bring  God's  worst  rebels  in  alive  and  you'll 
get  your  bounty." 

"  Some  of  the  vilest  seem  to  come  in  to  you  here," 
suggested  Stephen,  glancing  toward  the  women. 

"  Yes,  they  do,  thank  God,"  and  the  General's  eye 
is  gleaming  now.  "  But  there's  none  so  vile  that 
there's  not  some  good  about  them — see  that  woman 
there  ?  "  he  said,  nodding  toward  a  poor  outcast  who 
was  inviting  an  admiring  circle  to  feel  a  new  discov- 
ered tooth  of  her  six-months-old,  the  proprietor 
resenting  the  familiarity.  "  See  the  light  on  that 
woman's  face?  Do  you  know  what  that  reminds 
me  of  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Stephen,  "  I  don't  think  I  do." 

"  Well,  sir,  it  reminds  me  of  a  noble  vessel  I  once 
saw  in  the  St.  Lawrence  gulf.  It  was  a  wreck — al- 
most sunken — and  the  waves  were  rolling  over  it, 
celebrating  their  victory.  But  the  poor  ship  had  a 
bell  on  its  main  deck — and  I  heard  it  ring ;  amid  all 
the  shame  and  overthrow,  that  bell's  music  was  as 
sweet  and  clear  as  ever.  It's  the  same  with  that  poor 
wreck  yonder — you'll  find  it  the  same  in  all  your 
ministry — always  some  music  left.  You'll  find 
chimes  in  ruined  steeples — ask  God  to  teach  you 
how  to  make  them  ring  again — He'll  show  you 
how. " 

As  Stephen  looked  into  the  glowing  face,  he  felt 
the  poverty  of  his  own  ideals  in  the  life-work  he  had 
chosen.  How  different  this  from  the  gilded  vision  of 
success  and  distinction  he  had  cherished,  intensified 
as  it  had  been  by  the  latest  prospect  of  a  rich  and 


THE  GENERAL  And   The   WAR          193 

cultured  congregation.  But  after  all,  he  thought, 
do  not  the  rich  and  fashionable  need  help  unto  their 
souls  as  well  as  the  poor  and  the  degraded  ?  For 
his  heart  was  set  on  the  Church  of  the  Covenant, 
and  much  thereunto  pertaining,  alien  all ;  though  he 
knew  it  not. 

He  followed  the  simple  service  with  an  intensity 
of  interest  he  had  hardly  ever  felt  before,  eager  to 
discern,  if  discern  he  might,  the  secret  of  such  power 
over  human  consciences  as  this  man  seemed  to  have. 

The  whole  service  seemed  to  be  of  the  utmost 
simplicity — but  every  life  before  him  seemed  to  be 
in  the  custody  of  his  will.  A  few  lively  songs,  with 
refrains  of  almost  grotesque  variety,  but  all  somehow 
attuned  to  the  melody  of  the  Cross  ;  a  few  brief  un- 
conventional prayers,  their  familiarity  grating  on 
Stephen's  academic  ear ;  a  few  testimonies  from  the 
latest  salvage — and  it  is  time  for  the  address. 

Wherewith  the  Reverend  .^Emilius  Cosgrove  came 
forward,  beginning  his  homily  with  those  terms  of 
patronage  and  pity  so  exasperating  to  the  poor. 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  grace  of  God,  my 
sisters,  I  might  have  been  one  of  you  to-night,"  he 
gravely  assured  them,  the  keener-minded  among  the 
women  starting  with  surprise  at  his  creative  fancy, 
the  General  taking  shelter  behind  a  hymn-book. 
The  details  of  his  address  need  not  be  given ;  but  the 
general  drift  of  his  discourse  may  be  inferred  from 
the  General's  remarks,  these  being  made  after  the 
varied  worshippers  had  sung  a  hymn. 

"  And  now,  comrades,"  the  General  began  when 


194  THE   UNDERTOW 

the  music  ceased,  "  one  sermon  at  a  meeting  is 
enough.  But  I  just  want  to  add  a  word — I'm  not 
like  the  last  speaker,  for  I'm  just  the  same  as  you, 
just  the  same,"  he  repeated,  "  and,  owing  to  the  love 
of  God,  you  and  I  stand  even  to-night — for  we're  all 
sinners  saved  by  grace.  And  we'll  be  the  same  when 
we  get  home.  We're  all  miracles,  every  one — and 
speaking  of  miracles,  my  brother  will  let  me  say  that 
those  scripture  ones  actually  happened,  every  one  of 
them.  They're  happening  yet,"  he  went  on ;  "  and 
I've  seen  them  myself,"  his  passion  heightening  with 
the  words,  "  I've  even  seen  Lazarus  raised  from  the 
dead,  right  here  in  Poplar.  I've  seen  the  grave- 
clothes  around  his  hands  and  feet,  and  the  napkin 
tied  about  his  face,  and  the  signs  of  death  upon  him 
— and  I've  seen  him  come  forth  and  live.  And  I'm 
sure  the  Master  had  as  much  power  then  as  He  has 
now.  Now  I  want  you  all  to  come  to  Him — all  to 
come  to  Jesus — just  as  you  are  !  Come  to  the  cross 
— don't  mind  its  example — we've  lots  of  example ; 
more  than  we  ever  made  use  of.  But  we  want  a 
Saviour.  So  come,  just  as  you  are ;  come  clinging 
to  the  cross.  That's  what  we  use  it  for — not  for 
looking  at,  but  for  clinging  to — that's  been  our  way 
here  for  all  these  years,  and  that'll  be  our  way  to  the 
end. 

"  Don't  waste  your  time  looking  in — looking  for 
the  divine,  or  anything  else.  We're  sick  of  all  that's 
in  ourselves,  aren't  we?  Let  us  look  up,  and  out, 
and  on  to  Christ — that'll  refresh  our  poor  weary 
souls.  And  now,  my  brother,"  he  said,  turning  to 


THE  GENERAL  And  The   WAR          195 

the  previous  speaker,  "  there's  one  thing  I  must  ask 
my  comrades  to  forget."  He  turned  to  his  audience, 
their  eyes  raptly  fixed  upon  the  speaker.  "  Don't 
bother  yourselves  about  the  broken  pinion.  If  the 
One  that  made  the  world  can't  make  a  wing  as  good 
as  new,  I'll  not  serve  Him  any  longer.  He  fixed 
Peter's  wing  all  right — and  Paul's  too — he  soared 
pretty  high  again,  if  I  know  anything  about  dis- 
tance; and  He  fixed  the  dying  thief's  enough  to 
fly  to  Paradise  with  it — and  He  mended  Augustine's 
— and  John  Bunyan's  didn't  flutter  much.  And  I've 
had  some  repairing  done  myself,  bless  His  holy 
name,"  he  cried  in  fervent  gladness ;  "  Thou  hast 
mended  mine,  oh  Christ,  till  it's  better  far  than  ever," 
he  exclaimed  in  a  sort  of  rhapsody;  "  and  every 
poor  wounded  one  here  to-night  may  prove  Thy 
healing  power.  Oh,  come,  come  to  Jesus  now  and 
He  will  make  you  whole." 

The  General  seemed  all  unconscious  of  the  man 
whose  remarks  had  provoked  his  own,  leaning  over 
with  outstretched  hands  toward  the  listeners,  who 
leaned  forward  with  almost  equal  eagerness  toward 
himself.  His  eyes  were  veiled  with  the  vision  of  the 
unseen  things  of  God,  yet  shining  with  a  great  com- 
passion, as  he  looked  out  upon  the  melted  company. 

"  We'll  have  a  hymn,"  he  said  presently,  "  and 
after  that,  one  of  our  new  recruits  will  sing  to  us." 

"  Whiter  than  snow  "  was  the  one  he  chose  ;  and 
the  sullied  lips  sang  it  with  pathetic  fervour,  the 
chorus  chanted  again  and  again. 

After  they  had  finished,  Hattie  timidly  advanced  to 


196  THE    UNDERTOW 

the  organ  and  soon  began  her  song.  A  little  ner- 
vous, somewhat  faltering  at  first,  came  the  rich  full 
notes ;  but  she  soon  seemed  to  forget  her  audience, 
her  friend  that  the  midnight  had  brought  her,  even 
the  General  himself. 

The  uncultured  poor  may  disport  themselves  the 
most  in  those  religious  songs  with  which  their  senses 
are  led  captive  by  chiming  chorus  and  refrain  of 
witching  melody;  but  they  yield  their  deepest 
homage  to  the  sovereign  power  of  the  mighty  hymns 
that  are  destined  to  outlive  the  ages.  The  breath  of 
the  uplands  is  alike  precious  to  peasant  and  to  king. 

Wherefore  when  Hattie  began  her  dying  mother's 
hymn : — 

"  When  I  survey  the  wondrous  cross 
On  which  the  Prince  of  Glory  died," 

the  faces  before  her  lighted  up  with  a  solemn  joy  that 
neither  of  the  preceding  songs  had  been  able  to 
evoke.  Their  souls,  sodden  as  they  were,  responded 
to  its  stately  numbers,  answering  as  to  their  native 
tongue.  Looking  up,  Hattie  caught  the  inspiration 
of  their  breathless  interest ;  and  her  soul  poured  it- 
self into  the  words,  itself  aflame  with  their  holy  fire. 

"  See  from  His  head,  His  hands,  His  feet 
Sorrow  and  love  flow  mingled  down," 

she  sang,  her  voice  trembling  with  the  passion-note. 
Her  face,  too,  is  glowing,  lit  up  with  secret  ardour  to- 
ward the  Man  of  Sorrows,  tender  with  fellow  feeling 
for  the  wanderers  before  her,  suffused  with  grateful 


THE  GENERAL  And   The   WAR          197 

joy  for  the  redemption  she  knows  is  her  own  for- 
ever. 

As  Stephen  gazes,  he  thinks  he  has  never  seen  a 
face  so  beatific.  All  the  surprise  of  it  breaks  upon 
him  with  overpowering  effect ;  he  tries  in  vain  to  re- 
call different  scenes  with  which  that  face  had  mingled, 
and  to  review  his  hasty  verdict.  It  eludes  him.  He 
sees  nothing  but  the  golden  tresses  and  the  tear- 
dewed  eyes  ;  hears  nothing  but  the  wondrous  voice, 
the  great  words  borne  by  it  like  golden  treasure  on 
some  shining  stream ;  feels  nothing  but  the  rapturous 
thought  that  she  is  pure  and  fragrant,  marked  for 
suffering  loneliness  it  may  be,  but  all  the  worthier 
thereby  to  voice  the  De  Profundis  of  the  ages.  He 
feels  vaguely  that  she  has  learned,  in  life's  hard 
school,  the  very  truth  she  sings  ;  that  she  has  drunk 
at  the  fountain-head  of  sorrow  ;  that  she  has  caught, 
as  he  never  has,  the  Secret  of  the  Cross. 

A  new  sensation  fills  his  heart  as  it  goes  out,  as 
much  in  reverence  as  in  love,  to  the  girl  before  him. 
He  thrills  anew  as  the  purity  of  it  all,  the  girlish 
purity,  breaks  afresh  upon  him.  And  in  that  hour, 
by  his  soul's  great  motion,  he  seeks  to  purify  his 
heart  forever.  The  chamber  wherein  that  image 
dwells,  must  be  chaste  and  pure.  For  he  knows — 
he  knows.  Life's  hour  has  struck  at  last ! 

Gazing  still,  his  eyes  meet  hers  just  as  the  hymn  is 
almost  finished.  They  seem  to  clasp  the  girl's,  his 
spirit  leaping  toward  her.  And  his  heart  throbs  as 
he  sees  how  Hattie's  eyes  drop  before  his  look.  Her 
gaze  is  averted,  but  her  voice  flows  on : 


198  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Demands  my  soul  my  life  my  all," 

and  the  words  smite  him  with  the  sense  of  consecra- 
tion on  the  part  of  her  who  sings  them. 

A  great  gulf  seems  to  bid  him  back ;  for  he  feels 
that  the  life  before  him  has  a  motive,  and  a  surrender, 
that  his  own  has  never  known.  Why,  he  knows  not 
— but  the  spiritual  has  its  own  language  to  express 
its  life.  And  its  rich  tones  were  in  the  voice  whose 
thrall  was  on  every  listener's  heart. 


XVI 
The    DUEL    in    HYDE   PARK 

"       A      ND  had  you  really  a  message  to  a  Duke  ?  " 
/\          «  Yes,  from  my  father — to  thank  him  for 

X  JL  his  gift,  that  I  told  you  about,"  Stephen 
answered,  smiling  at  the  eager  face. 

"  And  you  can't  see  him  after  all.     Aren't  you 

going  to ?     Where  is  it  you  said  he  lives  ?     Oh, 

yes,  at  Kelso.     Aren't  you  going  there  at  all  ?  " 

"  No,  he's  in  Italy,  as  I  said,  so  of  course  I  can't 
see  him.  I'm  not  breaking  my  heart  about  it  at 
all." 

Hattie's  face,  stamped  with  the  reverence  for  dukes 
and  those  of  kindred  station  that  had  come  down  to 
her  through  generations,  still  bore  a  puzzled  look. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  ever  knew  any  one  before  who 
knew  a  great  man  like  that,"  she  averred  after  a  long 
pause. 

"  I  don't  know  him,"  Stephen  hastened  to  affirm. 
"  But  where  I'm  going  to  live,  there  are  lots  of  men 
I  consider  just  as  great  as  he,  even  if  they  haven't 
any  titles.  They're  untitled  dukes,  a  lot  of  them." 

"  Oh,  you  mean  at  that  great  Hamilton  church — 
the  Church  of  the  Covenant.  And  you  say  you've 
promised  to  be  their  minister  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I've  written  them  so." 
199 


200  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  And  what  will  that  other  place  do,  that  country 
congregation  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Morven,  you  mean.  I  guess  they'll  soon  for- 
get about  me.  Which  would  you  have  taken  ?  "  he 
added,  turning  and  looking  into  her  face. 

"  I'd  have  gone  to  Morven,"  she  answered  fer- 
vently. 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  because  I'm  not  used  to  rich 
people — and  I  wouldn't  be  happy.  And  then  I 
could  do  more  good  in  a  nice  country  place.  Do  you 
know  what  I  can't  help  thinking  ?  " 

"  No,  what  is  it — tell  me  ?  " 

"  It  seems  so  strange  for  me  to  be  here  with  you,  as 
your — your — friend,  with  all  thatyou  are — andthepeo- 
ple  you  know — and  all  that  you're  going  to  be.  And 
I  nothing  but  a  simple  little  country  girl — oh,  listen," 
she  cried  suddenly,  her  attention  diverted  by  the 
words,  "  isn't  that  fearful  ?  Do  you  hear  what  that 
man's  saying  ?  Let  us  go  away." 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon  in  Hyde  Park,  at  which 
time  and  place  earth  and  heaven  meet — and  all  that 
lies  between.  Stretched  in  verdant  beauty,  the  great 
park  rang  with  conflicting  voices,  like  some  tower  of 
Babel,  prostrate  and  shattered  upon  the  sward,  but 
echoing  and  gesticulating  still.  The  world's  parlia- 
ment of  religions  was  revelling  in  its  weekly  session, 
every  chime  of  the  exultant  and  every  groan  of  the 
disordered  finding  here  unmuffled  voice. 

The  words  that  had  evoked  Hattie's  shuddering 
protest  were  those  of  a  high-browed  orator,  holding 


The    DUEL   in    HYDE   PARK      201 

in  his  hand  a  Bible,  which,  with  all  its  kindred,  he 
was  committing  to  a  fitting  grave. 

Hattie  and  Stephen  lingered,  listening  as  the  des- 
troyer went  on  his  way,  exceeding  hot  against  the 
volume  whose  lifeless  form  he  held  up  again  and  again 
before  his  listeners'  eyes. 

Stephen's  face  burned  as  he  marked  the  varied 
modes  of  attack;  some  covert,  some  ingenious,  some 
beguiling,  some  coarse  and  savage,  but  touched 
with  the  man's  evident  ability,  marked  by  consid- 
erable grace  of  speech,  all  animated  by  a  turbid  as- 
surance, simulated  or  sincere,  that  the  Bible's  reign 
was  at  an  end. 

Even  Homer  nods ;  happily  for  what  was  yet  to 
follow,  the  debater,  amid  much  that  was  worthier,  in- 
dulged a  swift  and  sneering  reference  to  Jonah  and 
his  adventures  submarine. 

Deeper  burned  the  flame  on  Stephen's  cheek  and 
brow  as  he  noted  the  apparent  grip  the  man  pos- 
sessed upon  at  least  a  section  of  the  vast  crowd  that 
was  now  massed  about  the  portable  platform  from 
which  he  launched  his  finished  sentences;  indig- 
nation gathered  in  his  heart  as  he  noticed  here  and 
there  among  the  throng  an  unsophisticated  youth, 
his  whole  demeanour  bespeaking  the  initial  shock  of 
horror  and  surprise ;  which,  and  here  was  the  pity  of 
it,  slowly  vanishing  before  the  derisive  or  destructive 
of  the  man's  appeal,  turned  at  last  into  an  attitude  of 
judicial  wonder  sometimes  to  one  of  smiling  and  en- 
lightened approbation. 

"  And  now,"  he  said  as  he  closed  his  fiery  address, 


202  THE   UNDERTOW 

"  I  pause  to  give  any  who  may  so  desire  an  oppor- 
tunity to  refute  my  arguments.  Does  any  gentleman 
wish  to  take  the  platform  ?  " 

There  was  a  nervous  pause,  during  which  Stephen 
turned  and  looked  into  Hattie's  face.  Two  burning 
coals  sat  on  her  cheeks ;  poor  child,  she  had  never 
heard  the  like  of  this  before — and  the  only  Bible  she 
had  known  was  her  mother's,  holy  with  its  stain  of 
tears. 

As  Stephen  looked  into  the  flashing  eyes,  their 
light  seemed  turned  to  language,  and  his  heart  leaped 
to  do  their  bidding.  Neither  spoke  a  word — but  the 
crowd  was  swaying  as  if  to  break  and  scatter. 
Whereat  he  held  up  his  hand  toward  the  platform,  to 
attract  attention,  pressing  eagerly  on  through  the 
crowd. 

"  Ah,  here's  somebody  to  the  rescue.  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,"  cried  the  lecturer,  flinging  his  voice  to 
the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  "  here's  a  gentleman  who 
will  try  to  answer  me." 

The  multitude  flowed  together  again,  and  Stephen 
could  feel  his  heart  beat  as  he  stood  by  the  narrow 
steps  which  the  now  silent  orator  descended  to  make 
room  for  the  newcomer.  Their  eyes  met  as  Stephen's 
foot  was  on  the  bottom  step. 

"  Might  I  enquire  your  name,  sir  ?  "  Stephen  asked, 
pausing  a  moment. 

"  Certainly.  My  name  is  Harstone,  Dr.  Harstone 
— I'm  a  Doctor  of  Science." 

"  Thank  you :  my  name's  Wishart,"  and  Stephen 
ascended  another  step. 


The    DUEL    in    HYDE   PARK      203 

The  Doctor  of  Science,  meeting  his  respondent's 
eye,  may  have  detected  within  it  symptoms  not  par- 
ticularly reassuring.  In  any  case,  he  leaned  forward 
and  touched  Stephen  on  the  arm. 

"  Five  minutes  is  all  I  can  allow  you,  sir ;  I've 
promised  my  platform  to  a  colleague  up  nearer  the 
marble  arch — very  sorry,  but  five  minutes  is  all  I  can 
afford." 

Stephen  looked  at  the  man,  answered  nothing,  and 
stepped  on  to  the  platform.  A  sudden  inspiration 
seized  him ;  looking  for  a  moment  at  the  swaying 
crowd,  he  began : 

"  I  have  not  ascended  this  platform  for  the  purpose 
of  answering  Dr.  Harstone — for  such  he  kindly  in- 
forms me  is  his  name — or  of  refuting  his  arguments. 
On  the  contrary,  I  have  taken  my  place  here  that  I 
may  ask  this  great  audience  to  join  in  what  is  proba- 
bly a  most  unusual  proceeding  for  a  gathering  such 
as  this.  I  shall  ask  you  to  unite  with  me  in  an  ex- 
pression of  appreciation  and  gratitude  toward  the 
gifted  gentleman  for  the  enlightenment  he  has  just 
afforded  us."  At  which  startling  announcement,  the 
crowd  suddenly  grew  still,  then  stirred  in  disappointed 
movement,  then  became  quiet  again,  eager  for  further 
light. 

That  moment,  a  dapper  youth  tripped  noiselessly 
up  the  steps.  Stephen  turned. 

"  The  Doctor  says  you  may  take  your  own  time," 
he  intimated  in  a  low  tone,  nodding  genially  the 
while. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Stephen,  his  face  a  little  pale 


204  THE    UNDERTOW 

as  he  turned  again  to  the  waiting  throng.  He  was 
silent  a  moment  or  two,  looking,  still  looking  into 
those  more  than  ocean  depths. 

And,  as  he  looked,  a  breeze  from  afar  came  and 
stirred  his  soul  as  the  night-wind  awakes  the  placid 
surface  of  the  sea.  For  the  soul  of  the  true  orator 
moved  within  him,  groping  for  its  armour  and  its 
sword. 

The  multitude  seemed  to  turn  their  faces  toward 
him  in  entreaty,  like  men  and  women  whose  treasure 
was  involved  in  the  trial  under  way,  unconscious  of  it 
though  they  themselves  might  be.  Eager  expecta- 
tion, clouded  now  with  dark  surprise  as  his  first 
words  floated  down,  still  shone  from  the  eyes  that 
had  hoped  to  find  a  champion  for  their  faith  in  the 
man  whose  power  of  face  and  form  had  provoked 
their  eager  interest  as  he  rose. 

And  there  swims  before  him  a  picture  that  fills 
his  soul  with  fire ;  far  away,  beyond  the  separating 
billows,  he  sees  the  stooped  and  tired  form  of  one 
but  for  whose  life  he  had  not  been.  The  thin  gray 
locks  are  straggled  about  the  furrowed  neck ;  the  toil- 
worn  hands  are  holding  in  their  reverent  grasp  a  vol- 
ume rich  in  sacred  memories;  the  noble  eyes  are 
glowing  with  the  light  of  love  as  the  trembling  lips 
move  on  their  eager  way.  The  light  burns  dim 
in  the  old  farmhouse  kitchen  and  the  clock  ticks 
solemnly  as  the  moments  fly.  But  to  Stephen's  rev- 
erent vision  the  room  is  filled  with  light ;  and  the 
aged  worshipper  is  none  other  than  one  of  the  kings 
and  priests  of  God. 


The    DUEL    in    HYDE   PARK       205 

The  vision  swiftly  disappears  as  he  beholds  anew 
the  eager  throng,  waiting  for  the  words  his  reverie 
has  deferred. 

"  Yes,  fellow-listeners,"  he  resumed,  "  shall  we  not 
render  our  meed  of  praise  unto  this  man  who  has  so 
helped  and  inspired  us  ?  " 

The  faces  of  his  auditors  darkened  before  him. 

"  When  I  first  heard  his  words  this  afternoon,  I 
was  a  firm  believer  in  the  Bible  he  has  so  relentlessly 
exposed ;  but  who  could  fail  to  be  converted  to  that 
orator's  position,  now  that  he  has  heard  the  striking 
and  original  reference  to  Jonah  and  the  whale  which 
has  just  broken  with  such  startling  power  from  his 
lips?" 

The  dawn  of  new  hope  began  to  play  upon  the 
faces  of  the  crowd ;  and  the  high-browed  lecturer 
looked  uneasily  at  the  dapper  youth  who  had  borne 
his  message  of  extended  time. 

"  Besides,"  Stephen  went  on,  the  inward  fire  kind- 
ling, "  he  has  not  told  us  half  that  may  be  said  in 
praise  of  the  noble  cause  to  which  he  lends  his  high 
abilities.  His  diffidence  has  sealed  his  lips.  Why 
has  he  not  informed  us  as  to  the  hospitals  that  have 
been  built,  the  asylums  that  have  been  provided,  by 
those  who  flout  the  authority  of  the  Bible  ?  Why 
has  he  not  enumerated  the  lands  in  which  philan- 
thropy and  generosity  spring  like  a  fountain,  fed  by 
some  other  spring  than  that  eternal  Heart  of  which 
the  Bible  tells  ?  Why  has  he,  in  the  excess  of  his 
modesty,  concealed  from  us  the  fact  that  the  men 
who  have  blessed  mankind  have  been  those  who 


206  THE    UNDERTOW 

owed  nothing  to  the  light  and  power  of  that  book 
which  in  our  ignorance  we  have  called  the  Word  of 
God  ?  Why  has  he  not  called  to  his  aid  the  mighty 
names  of  Scott  or  Gladstone,  of  Washington  or  Lin- 
coln, of  Kelvin  or  Carlyle  ?  Or  why  has  he  hidden 
from  us  the  kindred  truth  that  those  nations  that  de- 
spise the  Bible  have  won  immortal  vigour,  while  those 
that  own  its  fabled  sway,  like  England  and  America, 
have  gone  down  the  gulf  of  time  ? 

"  Nor  has  he  been  boastful  enough  to  declare  that 
the  mightiest  conceptions  of  art,  or  poetry,  or  music, 
have  been  vouchsafed  to  minds  that  drank  from 
purer  springs  than  the  stagnant  pools  of  the  mythol- 
ogy he  has  defined.  He  has  refrained  from  the 
crushing  evidence  of  Handel's  Messiah,  and  Da 
Vinci's  Last  Supper,  and  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  on 
all  of  which  he  might  have  laid  his  hand. 

"  Shall  we  not,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  acclaim  this 
heroic  spirit  who  has  so  enriched  our  conception  of 
our  destiny,  who  has  in  kindness  quenched  the  will- 
o'-the-wisp  our  fathers  followed  even  to  the  grave, 
who  has  plucked  from  our  hands  the  last  signal  of 
distress  our  fevered  hands  could  wave,  and  filled  with 
honest  brine  the  very  vessels  our  deluded  hearts  had 
hoped  were  the  receptacles  of  living  water  to  quench 
life's  cruel  thirst  ?  " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  looking  about  him  while  a 
strange  tremor  shook  his  frame.  The  owner  of  the 
platform  moved  as  if  to  ascend  the  stairs,  but 
Stephen  stopped  him.  "  I  am  not  through,"  he  said, 
sternly. 


The    DUEL    in    HYDE   PARK      207 

Then  he  turned  again  to  his  listeners,  and  a  won- 
derful softness  was  in  his  voice  as  he  resumed. 

"  Why  should  I  further  pursue,"  he  began  in  the 
quietest  of  tones,  "  the  unusual  style  of  debate  I  have 
thus  far  adopted  ?  I  will  not  press  it  further.  What 
have  I  to  do  with  motions,  or  mock  votes  of  thanks  ? 
But  I  will  tell  you  why  I  stand  before  you  as  I  do 
to-day ;  "  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  drew  his  watch  from 
his  pocket  and  opened  it.  "  Even  as  I  speak  these 
words,  there  sits,  far  across  the  sea,  an  aged  man 
whose  life  I  have  seen  ripen  in  all  truth  and  beauty. 
And  the  failing  eyes,  the  eyes  that  are  often  turned 
toward  the  son  who  stands  before  you  now,  the  eyes 
that  may  soon  be  closed  in  death,  are  fixed  this  hour 
upon  that  blessed  Book  whose  unseen  hands  have 
borne  him  through  this  vale  of  tears. 

"  And  I  will  tell  you  more,"  he  continued,  his 
voice  broken  and  trembling  now,  "  you  are  listening 
to  a  weak  and  sinful  man.  How,  or  why,  I  need  not 
say.  But  if  there  be  in  him  any  lingering  hope  of 
final  victory,  any  germ  of  holier  things,  he  owes  it  to 
a  mother  who  is  now  with  God.  Yes,"  he  cried, 
standing  at  full  height  again,  his  voice  holding  like  a 
bell  of  gold,  "  to  a  humble  Christian  woman  who 
reverenced  the  word  of  God,  and  loved  it  with  a  con- 
suming love.  And  it  was  the  pillow  for  her  dying 
head.  And  she  drank  from  that  golden  fountain  as 
she  passed  through  the  valley  with  her  Lord.  And 
her  dear  name  is  written  in  my  Bible — and  I  love  its 
every  page." 

He  finished  thus,  athrill  with  the  great  emotion. 


208  THE    UNDERTOW 

Still  he  stood,  looking  down  upon  the  wondering 
throng.  His  gaze  searched  their  faces — soon  trans- 
fixed it  was  on  one  alone.  For  it  fell  on  Hattie,  her 
lips  parted  and  panting,  her  bosom  heaving,  her  won- 
derful eyes  lighted  with  the  flame  that  clothed  her 
soul — ardent,  rejoicing,  almost  worshipful — a  flame 
that  told  of  coals  from  a  far-off  altar  in  the  workshop 
of  the  living  God. 

And  Stephen  saw  it  all — in  the  great  illumination 
of  that  quick  and  burning  hour,  face  to  face  though 
hundreds  stood  between,  his  soul  leaped  toward  her 
own,  both  meeting  in  that  holy  light.  And  both 
were  unashamed,  and  unafraid,  and  unalone — for  One 
was  there,  the  Bridegroom  that  attendeth  every  true 
festival  of  love. 

Thrilled  and  gladdened,  the  great  crowd  burst  into 
a  very  frenzy  of  cheering  and  applause  as  Stephen 
turned  to  descend  the  steps.  When  this  subsided, 
the  self-satisfied  youth  afore  referred  to  leaped  to  the 
platform,  fumbling  in  his  breast  pocket  for  a  docu- 
ment, plaintively  appealing  to  the  moving  multitude 
to  tarry  till  he  might  produce  evidence  that  an  infidel 
had  recently  given  ten  pounds  to  an  infirmary.  But 
a  laugh  broke  from  the  crowd  as  he  announced  his 
outline  of  reply,  followed  almost  immediately  by  a 
rich  baritone  voice  that  broke  forth  with 

"  Sing  them  over  again  to  me, 
Wonderful  words  of  life," 

to  the  music  of  which  the  throng  slowly  scattered, 
joining  in  the  chorus  as  they  went. 


The    DUEL    in    HYDE   PARK       209 

Rejoining  Hattie,  Stephen  said :  "  Let  us  go  back 
by  the  tube  ;  there's  a  station  just  outside  the  gate." 
Toward  which  they  walked  in  silence,  Hattie's  eyes 
now  and  then  stealing  to  her  companion's  face. 

Tremblingly  she  took  his  arm  as  they  passed 
through  the  crowded  arch,  still  clinging  to  it  as  they 
gained  the  street  without.  Suddenly  a  degraded 
figure  placed  herself  before  them,  the  face  leering 
up  at  Hattie. 

"  He's  quite  a  horator,  isn't  he  now  ? "  the  un- 
known woman  flung  at  Hattie  with  a  mocking  laugh, 
"  but  the  public  don't  know  'im  as  well  as  me  an'  you. 
Oh,  you  needn't  be  a  turnin'  up  of  yer  noses  :  I  seen 
the  both  of  you  the  night  he  picked  you  up,  an'  then 
pushed  you  off  on  the  'ome.  I  went  into  the  Harmy 
'ome  just  behind  you.  Won't  you  take  me  out  too, 
mister,  some  nother  afternoon?  "  and  the  poor  creature 
laughed  at  her  jibing  words. 

Without  a  word,  Stephen  hurried  the  quivering 
Hattie  on,  blanched  and  white  as  was  her  face. 
What  the  girl  was  pondering  need  scarce  be  told, 
nor  what  dread  inference  she  was  drawing,  enlight- 
ened as  she  was  by  the  coarse  and  cruel  words,  con- 
cerning the  future  portent  of  her  relationship  to  the 
man  who  now  seemed  so  far  beyond  her. 

But  the  silence  of  their  remaining  way  to  the 
buried  station  was  broken  by  her  only  once,  and  then 
to  say  : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wishart,  let  me  go  alone — this  should 
not  be ;  oh,  let  me  go."  Which  he  chided  in  the 
tenderest  of  tones,  drawing  closer  to  the  shrinking 


210  THE    UNDERTOW 

form  as  they  passed  down  through  the  semi-dark- 
ness. 

But  as  they  entered  the  corridor  of  their  car,  she 
walked  swiftly  on,  Stephen  wondering  as  he  followed 
why  she  did  not  take  her  seat.  She  gained  the 
farther  platform  just  in  time;  for  the  last  incoming 
passenger  was  aboard  and  the  guard's  hand  upon  the 
lever  as  Hattie  flew  swiftly  past  him,  springing  onto 
the  stone  platform  as  the  gate  slammed  shut  be- 
hind her. 

Stephen  was  too  late  and  the  guard  roughly  pulled 
him  back  as  he  shook  the  rattling  gate.  Then  the 
train  bore  him  on  past  the  last  twinkling  light,  and 
into  the  inpenetrable  gloom. 


XVII 
AN    EDINBURGH   VOICE 

AS  Stephen  Wishart  sat  beside  his  half-packed 
trunk,  the  day  was  as  bright  and  beautiful 
as  his  mood  was  dark  and  sorrowful.     For 
he  was  about  to  set  forth  for  the  Scottish  Capital,  and 
London,  his  treasure  hidden  somewhere  in  its  mighty 
folds,  was  to  be  left  behind.    And  abandoned,  too, 
must  be  the  search  for  one  whose  motive  in  eluding 
him  lended  only  greater  charm  to  the  character  whose 
purity    and    goodness    had    so    strangely    touched 
his  life. 

A  new  source  of  disquiet  had  arisen,  in  the  shape 
of  a  letter  from  his  brother  Reuben,  which  at  that 
very  moment  engaged  his  serious  thought.  It  began 
with  a  reference  to  his  call  to  Hamilton,  and  abounded 
in  simple  felicitations  upon  the  distinction  that  had 
come  to  him,  full  particulars  of  which,  he  said,  would 
have  already  reached  him  in  the  letter  his  father  had 
dictated.  A  passing  reference  to  Morven,  and  his 
father's  preference  for  the  field  of  labour  there,  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  annals  of  the  neighbourhood,  chief 
amongst  which  was  the  story  of  a  rare  piece  of  good 
fortune  that  had  befallen  Hiram  Barker. 

The  letter  went  on  to  tell  how  Hiram  had  been  left 
a  handsome  competence  by  a  far-off  relative  in  Eng- 
land, it  being  a  condition  of  entail  that  the  beneficiary 

211 


212  THE    UNDERTOW 

should  adopt  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  Which, 
Reuben  declared,  Hiram  had  promptly  done,  being 
more  in  need  of  money  than  religion,  as  he  said  him- 
self. Indeed,  the  correspondent  remarked,  Barker's 
new-found  faith  is  more  in  the  nature  of  an  acquisi- 
tion than  a  change ;  as  there  was  very  little  to  dis- 
place. "  So  Hiram  has  laid  aside  the  tools  of  toil," 
Reuben  added,  "  and  is  going  to  live  a  gentleman's 
life  in  the  city — says  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  Hamilton, 
so  he  can  be  near  one  of  the  friends  of  his  youth,  be- 
ing quite  set  up  with  the  exalted  place  his  old  chum 
is  to  occupy  on  his  return.  And  now,"  the  letter 
concluded,  "  dear  Steve,  I've  kept  the  best  news  to 
the  last.  I'm  the  happiest  man  in  the  Province.  You 
know  why,  I  guess — but  I'll  tell  you.  I'm  going  to 
be  married  soon — at  least  before  very  long — although 
I  can't  get  Bessie  just  to  say  when.  She  doesn't 
want  to  leave  the  old  folks  just  yet,  she  says,  both  of 
whom  are  poorly.  There,  I've  let  the  cat  out  of  the 
bag — but  I  reckon  you  knew.  I'm  not  much  at  go- 
ing on  over  things,  Steve — but  I'm  so  happy.  She's 
the  dearest,  truest  girl  in  the  world,  as  you  know — 
and  Steve,  we  want  you  to  marry  us.  So  hurry  up 
and  come  home  to 

"  Your  affectionate  brother, 

"  REUBEN. 

" P.  S.  Father's  fine — he  killed  another  ground- 
hog the  first  shot.  Then  he  took  a  walk  down  to  the 
post-office.  R." 

At  the  news  of  Reuben's  approaching  marriage — 
and  of  Bessie's  hesitation — a  mysterious  riot  began  in 


AN   EDINBURGH    YOICE 

Stephen's  heart.  He  wondered  why.  A  dark  face, 
only  for  an  instant,  stamped  with  pallid  memory, 
looked  in  at  the  window  of  his  soul.  Instantly  dis- 
missed it  was,  as  the  tide  of  his  own  chaste  and  rev- 
erent love  surged  within  him ;  and  a  deep  sense  of 
gratitude,  almost  of  joy,  accompanied  the  thought 
of  his  brother's  happiness,  which  brother's  name  he 
breathed  in  blessing. 

But  this  news  about  Hiram  !  Not  that  the  tidings 
of  the  lucky  windfall  surprised  him  very  much. 
Hiram  had  often  thrown  out  hints  regarding  possible 
legacies  from  England — reservedly  enough,  it  was 
true ;  for  the  man  was  no  boaster.  But  some  prop- 
erty or  another  that  was  entailed  had  been  the  basis 
of  his  expectations.  "  The  devil  himself  can't  cheat 
me  out  of  it,"  he  had  told  Stephen  more  than  once, 
"  unless  he  calls  me  home  before  the  other  fellow." 
Wherefore  it  was  evident  to  Stephen  that  "  the  other 
fellow  "  had  outrun  the  tarrying  Hiram,  leaving  the 
property  behind  him,  in  that  spirit  of  generosity 
which  so  often  comes  with  death. 


"  Yes,  I  got  my  training  here  in  Edinburgh — and 
I  finished  in  Germany.  And  I  bless  the  memory  of 
my  old  professors — it's  all  useful  in  its  way.  But 
would  you  like  me  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Wishart,  of  one 
little  incident  that  went  far  to  make  me  a  pastor  ?  " 

The  speaker  was  one  of  Edinburgh's  most  famous 
preachers. 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  answered  eagerly, "  indeed  I  would. 


214  THE    UNDERTOW 

My  old  professor,  Dr.  Kingley,  told  me  the  pastoral 
instinct  was  your  ruling  passion — one  reason,  he  said, 
he  wanted  me  to  bring  his  letter  to  you.  I  would 
like  to  hear  the  incident  you  refer  to." 

"  Well,  sir,  it  was  a  bootblack ;  and  he  did  more 
than  any  other — or  as  much  as  any  other — to  give 
me  a  pastor's  heart.  It  happened  on  Lothian  Road 
— just  when  my  ministry  was  begun.  He  was  giving 
me  a  shine ;  and  I  was  in  a  hurry — was  cross  and 
nervous — and  he  seemed  dreadfully  slow  and  ab- 
stracted. 

"  Besides,"  and  the  preacher  smiled  at  the  reminis- 
cence, "  I  had  a  corn — and  the  urchin  seemed  bound 
to  polish  that  corn.  So  I  lost  my  temper  suddenly 
and  spoke  to  him  about  as  sharply  as  I  ever  spoke  to 
a  boy.  I  was  pretending  to  read  a  paper  and  I  hap- 
pened to  look  down  a  moment  later ;  the  poor  little 
fellow  was  brushing  away  for  dear  life — and  I  saw 
two  or  three  big  tears  drop  right  on  his  blacking-box. 
I  had  quite  a  time  getting  the  little  chap  to  tell  me 
what  was  the  matter — but  he  told  me  his  story  at  last. 
He  lived  in  Stockbridge — a  poor  quarter  of  Edin- 
burgh— and  his  mother  had  been  buried  the  very 
day  before : — '  Tarn  an'  me  wheelt  her  oot  to 
Airthur's  Seat  four  times  in  a  chair,'  the  little  fellow 
said, '  for  a  change  o'  air — but  she  got  nae  better. 
An'  we  wadna  let  her  gang  till  the  Infirmary — an'  me 
an'  Tarn  was  wi'  her  when  she  dee't.  An'  Tarn  an' 
me's  gaein'  to  pay  the  funeral  oorsels.  Tarn's  my 
little  brither.' 

"  That  was  the  simple  story — but  it  almost  made  a 


AN  EDINBURGH   ISQICE         215 

minister  of  me.  A  true  minister  will  always  feel  that 
he  is  walking  over  Waterloo  after  the  battle,  trying  to 
help  the  fallen.  It's  a  choice  between  the  harrowed 
heart  and  no  heart  at  all.  Pray  for  the  capacity  to  suf- 
fer, Mr.  Wishart,  if  you  want  to  enjoy  your  ministry." 

"  I  see  your  meaning,"  Stephen  answered  enthusi- 
astically ;  "  and  I  think  it's  beautiful.  There's  noth- 
ing so  really  enjoyable  as  the  cross — that's  the  idea, 
isn't  it  ?  "  he  added  buoyantly. 

The  older  man  cast  at  him  a  glance  of  curious 
keenness. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  idea — the  idea,"  he  replied  half 
aloud,  his  emphasis  full  of  meaning  that  was  lost  on 
Stephen.  "  I  guess  we'll  have  to  go — our  meeting 
begins  at  eight." 

The  attendance  at  this  mid-week  service  was  not 
large  ;  but  Stephen  was  enthralled  by  the  wonderful 
words  that  fell  from  the  preacher's  lips.  His  subject 
was  Jacob — how  he  had  cheated  his  brother  Esau  ; 
and  how  he  himself  had  been  cheated  in  return  by  his 
Uncle  Laban. 

"  He  was  cheated  out  of  his  wages ;  and  cheated 
out  of  his  wife,  and  cheated,  and  cheated,  and  cheated 
again,  ten  times  cheated,  till  cheating  came  out  of 
Jacob's  nostrils  and  stank  in  his  eyes  and  became 
hateful  as  hell  to  Jacob's  heart,"  and  the  preacher's 
glowing  eyes  seemed  fixed  on  Stephen  as  he  spoke. 

"  We  say  that  Greek  meets  Greek,"  he  went  on, 
"  we  say  that  diamond  cuts  diamond.  We  calculate 
the  length  of  handle  his  spoon  would  need  to  have 
who  sups  with  the  devil.  We  speak  about  the  seller 


216  THE    UNDERTOW 

being  sold.  As  a  man  soweth,  so  shall  he  reap,  we 
quote.  Other  little  boys  had  been  taking  prizes  in 
the  devil's  sly  school,  besides  Rebecca's  favourite  son. 
And  now  that  the  stage  is  all  ready,  all  the  world  is 
invited  in  to  see  the  serio-comedy  of  the  Syrian  biter 
bit,  or  Rebecca's  poor  lost  sheep  shorn  to  the  bone 
by  the  steely  shears  of  Shylock  her  brother.  '  What 
is  this  that  thou  hast  done  unto  me  ?  Wherefore 
hast  thou  so  beguiled  me  ?  '  Jacob  remonstrates  in  his 
sweet,  injured,  salad  innocence.  Jacob  had  never 
seen  or  heard  the  like  of  it.  It  shocked  terribly 
Jacob's  sense  of  right ;  it  almost  shook  down  Jacob's 
faith  in  the  God  of  Bethel.  And  so  still,"  went  on 
the  preacher,  and  Stephen  knows  now  that  those 
piercing  eyes  are  fixed  upon  himself, "  we  never  see 
what  wickedness  there  is  in  lies,  and  treachery,  and 
cheatery,  and  injury  of  all  kinds  till  we  are  cheated 
and  lied  against  and  injured  ourselves.  Then  the 
whole  blackness  and  abominableness  breaks  out  upon 
us.  As  long  as  Esau  lives,  as  long  as  that  man  or  that 
woman  lives  whom  our  son  supplanted  so  long  ago, 
he  will  build  his  house  over  a  volcano  and  will  travel 
home  to  it  with  a  trembling  heart." 

Which  very  heart  Stephen  bore  within  his  bosom 
as  he  turned  his  footsteps  homeward,  or  at  least  to- 
ward the  humble  room  on  George  Street  which  now 
served  him  as  a  home. 

For  he  somehow  felt  that  Jacob's  experience  was 
not  far  different  from  his  own.  The  weeks  he  had 
spent  in  Edinburgh  had  passed  on  leaden  feet.  Dis- 
appointment, heart-hunger,  loneliness,  had  been  his 


AN   EDINBURGH    YOICE         217 

portion.  Was  it  to  be  his  lot,  he  mused,  as  he  walked 
slowly  on,  to  taste  himself  of  the  cup  that  others  had 
been  compelled  to  drink  through  the  foment  of  his 
heart  and  the  inconstancy  of  his  soul  ? 

For  his  heart  was  hungering  for  the  sight  of  that 
dear  face,  for  the  sound  of  that  rich  and  soulful 
voice,  both  of  which  had  so  suddenly  laid  their  spell 
upon  his  life — a  new  spell,  unlike  to  those  of  earlier 
days  that  had  been  so  thoughtlessly  avowed  and  so 
lightly  banished.  All  his  efforts  to  find  Hattie,  or  to 
see  her  again  before  he  left  London  for  the  North,  had 
been  in  vain.  A  brief  note  forwarded  from  his  Lon- 
don lodgings  to  Edinburgh,  telling  him  that  they  must 
not  meet,  had  been  all  his  eager  heart  was  given. 

"  You  will  go  your  way  and  be  a  faithful  servant  of 
the  Master,"  she  had  said,  "  and  I'll  go  mine,  and  try 
to  be  a  good  soldier  of  the  cross.  For  I've  gone  into 
the  war  ;  and  I  shall  do  all  a  weak  girl  can  for  Him 
who  loved  me  and  saved  me  by  His  grace.  He  kept 
my  feet  from  the  fearful  pit  and  the  miry  clay — 
and  He  has  kept  my  little  cross  bright  and  burnished 
still.  And  I  shall  always  pray  for  you — and  never 
forget  you — I'll  remember  you  more  than  I  will  any- 
body else.  Good-bye." 

Thus  the  simple  note  had  ended,  and  Stephen  had 
read  it  over  and  over  again,  knowing  better  every 
time  that  at  last  he  had  learned  to  love.  Learning 
which,  he  had  learned  to  suffer  too. 

One  last  appealing  letter  he  had  written,  but  it  had 
brought  forth  no  response.  Letters  to  the  Army 
Home  elicited  the  information  that  she  was  on  duty 


218  THE    UNDERTOW 

away  from  London — and  silence,  deep  and  dark, 
settled  down  about  him. 

The  portentous  phrases  of  the  sermon  he  had 
heard  mingled  with  his  thought  as  he  walked  along. 
"  The  biter,  bit !  The  seller,  sold  !  "  Was  his  own 
punishment  to  come  to  him  thus,  he  meditated? 
"  His  house  over  a  volcano  !  "  Could  it  be  that  he 
too  was  reaping  what  he  had  sowed  so  recklessly  ? 
He  thought  of  God  and  was  troubled.  After  all, 
does  He  think  of  justice,  and  retribution — in  detail? 
The  memory  of  the  Lyceum  theatre — and  the  great 
actor — and  his  awful  message — flashed  through  his 
mind. 

The  busy  weeks  and  months  flew  by,  filled  with 
ardent  study,  marked  by  much  of  fruitful  thought 
and  more  of  deepening  life.  The  spirit  of  penitence 
and  pleading,  mingled  with  the  sorrow  of  his  lonely 
heart,  seemed  to  quicken  Stephen  Wishart's  whole 
intellectual  life,  devoted  as  it  was  in  serious  purpose 
to  his  work  in  hand.  With  the  result  that  his  old- 
time  record  of  academic  brilliancy  was  not  only  sus- 
tained, but  heightened,  winning  the  highest  eulogies 
of  his  professors  with  the  highest  honours  of  the 
term. 

And  now  the  time  had  come  when  Stephen,  with 
others  of  his  class,  was  to  be  licensed  as  a  preacher 
of  the  Gospel.  The  ceremony  was  to  be  held  in  one 
of  the  largest  churches  in  Scotia's  darling  seat, 
wherein  Stephen  and  his  fellows  presented  them- 
selves for  the  solemn  rite,  which  was  duly  performed, 


AN   EDINBURGH   VOICE         219 

the  great  duty  laid  upon  them,  the  great  trust  com- 
mitted to  their  souls.  Following  this,  the  Moderator 
led  in  earnest  prayer,  commending  them  to  the  great 
Master  whom  they  dared  to  serve. 

From  the  platform  where  they  stood,  Stephen's 
eye  roamed  carelessly  over  the  multitude  that  filled 
the  church.  Suddenly  his  attention  was  arrested ; 
among  all  the  forms  of  head-gear  that  crowned  the 
bended  heads  of  kneeling  women,  he  remarked  one 
that  hurled  his  mind  swiftly  back  to  an  association 
from  which  it  was  never  long  detached.  For  the 
bonnet  was  of  one  who  had  enlisted  in  the  army  of 
the  Lord — and  the  flaming  ribbon  was  upon  its  brow. 

His  burning  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon  it,  nor 
were  withdrawn  till  the  closing  petition  released  the 
bending  worshippers,  and  the  hidden  face  was  up- 
turned with  the  rest.  The  other  candidates  for  the 
holy  office  quietly  resumed  their  seats ;  but  Stephen, 
oblivious  to  them — and  to  all  else  but  that  on  which 
his  eager  eyes  were  resting — stood  where  he  was,  his 
gaze  still  rapt  upon  the  now  recognizable  face. 

It  was  the  same  face  as  had  filled  his  waking 
thoughts  and  troubled  the  spirit  of  his  dreams.  The 
same  chaste  beauty  sat  upon  it — but  lovelier ;  for  the 
light  of  faith  and  trust,  that  comes  with  prayer,  had 
softened  and  enhanced  its  charm.  Her  eyes  are  cast 
toward  himself,  the  emotion  that  bedews  them 
plainly  visible  in  the  down-streaming  light. 

She  must  have  felt  that  she  was  recognized ;  for 
her  face  is  hidden  in  a  moment,  low-bowed  again, 
her  confusion  evident. 


220  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Take  your  seat,  Mr.  Wishart — we're  just  about  to 
close,"  the  presiding  officer  whispered  to  the  man 
who  stood  transfixed  before  him. 

"  Excuse  me,"  faltered  Stephen,  "  I  thought  I  saw 
the  face  of  a  friend — excuse  me,  please;  I'll  just 
step  down." 

"  We'll  be  concluding  in  a  moment — all  things 
decently  and  in  order,  you  know,"  and  the  Moderator 
smiled  his  most  amiable  smile. 

But  his  tact  and  his  text  were  alike  in  vain; 
Stephen  had  already  descended  from  the  platform 
and  begun  his  rapid  way  down  the  aisle.  Too  late 
— for  the  tall  figure  had  begun  her  retreat  as  he  de- 
scended. He  made  the  best  of  his  way  to  the  door 
— but  she  had  vanished ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
reentered  the  church,  his  new  commission  all  for- 
gotten, his  old  thirst  intensified  a  thousand  fold 
within  his  soul. 


The  end  of  his  transatlantic  sojourn  was  in  sight ; 
and  the  date  for  his  homeward  sailing  was  already 
set.  Stephen  knew  that  what  he  would  do  must  be 
quickly  done.  That  Hattie  was,  or  had  been  until 
now,  in  the  same  city  with  himself,  was  now  plain ; 
to  ascertain  her  whereabouts  and  to  meet  her  face 
to  face  became  the  business  of  his  life,  or  at 
least,  of  so  much  of  it  as  the  few  remaining  days  af- 
forded him.  His  enquiries  at  official  sources  only 
revealed  an  ignorance  which  in  his  bitterness  he 
branded  as  assumed ;  or  else  it  provoked  the  most 


AN  EDINBURGH  fOICE        221 

laconic  and  evasive  of  replies,  Wherefore  he  turned 
again  with  renewed  purpose  to  the  only  alternative 
left  him,  haunting  the  accustomed  battle-fields  of  the 
army  to  which  she  had  given  her  allegiance,  scan- 
ning every  soldierly  procession  to  detect,  if  detect  he 
might,  the  face  he  had  sought  so  long. 

The  tardy  twilight  had  at  length  fallen  upon  the 
comely  city  as  he  bent  his  steps  one  evening  through 
the  motley  life  that  strews  the  Cannongate.  He  had 
almost  gained  the  foot  of  the  street,  the  ancient 
shadow  of  Holyrood  coming  forth  to  meet  him, 
grim  in  its  reaction  from  centuries  of  revelry ;  when 
the  gleam  of  a  flaming  torch  and  the  sound  of  a 
gospel  hymn  awoke  him  from  his  reverie. 

He  stands  still,  gazing  eagerly.  A  man  is  in 
charge  of  the  meeting,  if  meeting  it  should  be 
called.  He  is  praying  now — a  loud  hectoring 
prayer — emphasized  by  many  a  stamp  of  his  heavy 
foot  and  many  a  thump  upon  the  drum  beside  him. 

The  lurid  prayer  is  finished;  and  the  suppliant 
looks  about  him,  peering  into  the  faces  of  the 
crowd,  if  haply  he  might  discern  how  far  it  is  likely 
to  be  answered. 

44  One  of  the  soldiers  is  agoin'  to  speak  to  yez 
now,"  he  said,  "  and  she'll  tell  yez  about  the  picnic ; " 
which  the  soldier  thus  announced  proceeded  to  do 
right  heartily,  intimating  that  all  children  who  could 
produce  the  credential  of  sufficient  need  would  be 
provided  with  tickets,  on  application  at  headquarters. 

"  I  guess  you  all  know  about  it— the  kiddies  have 
been  dreaming  about  it  for  a  fortnight.  We're  going 


222  THE    UNDERTOW 

to  Kimlachie,  hallelujah  !  A  gentleman  has  given  us 
his  estate  for  the  day.  We  don't  have  to  pay  any- 
thing, but  God'll  settle  with  him.  We're  going  to 
have  a  heavenly  time !  Remember,  we'll  leave  the 
Waverly  Station  at  ten  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Now  we're  agoin'  to  have  a  word  from  one  of 
the  new  recruits — fire  a  volley  !  "  he  cried,  turning  to 
the  soldiers. 

The  volley  was  fired  with  boisterous  enthusiasm, 
and  the  new  recruit  stepped  forth,  the  light  from  one 
of  the  torches  falling  distinctly  on  her  wavy  hair,  the 
delicate  pink  and  white  of  her  tender  skin  apparent 
beneath  its  glow ;  her  neck  and  face  were  bathed  in 
the  gentle  flow  that  suffused  them  both,  attesting  the 
shrinking  of  a  nature  not  yet  accustomed  to  such 
publicity.  As  she  begins  to  speak,  her  right  hand  is 
gracefully  extended,  showing  clear  in  the  ruddy  light. 

Stephen  is  on  the  outskirts  of  the  group,  and  his 
heart  is  throbbing  wildly.  For  he  can  see  her  face, 
himself  half  hidden  behind  a  taller  listener.  And 
she  has  begun  to  speak,  the  rich  tones  none  other 
than  those  he  had  yearned  so  long  to  hear.  That  her 
voice  was  a  wonderful  gift,  he  had  known  for  long ; 
but  to-night  it  seems  more  than  wonderful — for  its 
natural  sweetness  has  an  added  charm  that  only  sor- 
row can  impart,  mingling  with  it  the  nobler  note  of  a 
soul's  compassion. 

That  power  it  possessed,  which  no  culture  can  ac- 
quire, no  art  can  simulate ;  the  power  of  a  deep  and 
real  spiritual  experience. 

"  Dear  friends,  I  want  to  give  you  another  invita- 


AN   EDINBURGH   VOICE         223 

tion,"  she  began,  Stephen  trembling  as  the  pure  soul 
breathed  through  the  simple  words.  "  And  I  want 
you  all  to  come.  You're  all  tired,  I'm  sure,  tired  of 
the  muddy  roads  and  the  dusty  streets.  And  your 
feet  are  sore — and  your  hearts  are  heavy.  Oh,  I 
want  you  all  to  come  and  rest — come  to  Jesus,  and 
He  will  give  you  peace. 

"  Oh,  it's  hard — it's  so  hard,"  she  went  on  eagerly, 
holding  out  both  hands  now,  her  voice  throbbing  with 
an  emotion  that  none  of  her  hearers  save  one  could 
understand — "  so  hard  to  be  wandering  and  homeless, 
especially  if  you  know  you  left  your  father's  or  your 
mother's  house ;  so  hard  to  feel  you  can't  prevent  it 
getting  dark;  and  to  know  there's  nobody  wants 
you — and  no  place  to  go — and  nothing  to  eat — and 
so  hungry.  Wouldn't  it  just  break  your  heart  if  any 
of  your  own  children  were  wandering  like  that  in  the 
slums  of  Edinburgh — or  London  ?  Well,  God's  your 
father — and  He  knows — He  cares — and  I  want  you  to 
come.  Come  in  where  it's  warm,  and  where  there's 
bread  to  eat,  and  sweet  rest  for  the  weary. 

"  And  there's  no  ticket — no  money — no  price ;  for 
the  blessed  Saviour  has  bought  it  all  with  His  own 
precious  blood.  Oh,  come  to-night — come  just  as 
you  are,  and  Jesus  will  never  let  you  wander  any 
more." 

She  stopped,  the  leader  struck  up  the  familiar  hymn 
her  closing  words  suggested,  and  the  procession  be- 
gan to  wend  its  way  to  the  barracks  on  Cameron 
Street. 

Stephen   followed    for   a  little,  his   whole    frame 


224  THE    UNDERTOW 

thrilled  with  emotion.  He  longed  to  rush  in — yet 
feared.  A  sort  of  awe  possessed  him.  The  gulf  was 
a  moral  one,  though  he  did  not  so  regard  it.  He 
feared  to  press  himself  on  her,  as  one  might  shrink 
from  rushing  in  upon  some  white-robed  priest  serv- 
ing at  his  holy  altar.  Far  beyond  him,  he  felt  vividly 
enough,  the  girl's  soul  had  passed ;  though  she  was 
but  an  exhorter  of  the  street,  while  he  was  the  min- 
ister-elect of  a  proud  and  expectant  people. 

But  the  new  power  and  grace  that  seemed  to  clothe 
her,  conspiring  with  the  thrall  in  which  her  beauty 
already  held  him,  filled  him  with  longing  as  never 
before.  He  even  thought  of  the  uplift  to  his  own 
spiritual  life,  the  assistance  to  his  own  work  in  the 
ministry,  with  which  this  pure  and  devoted  spirit 
might  provide  him.  And  a  swift  prayer  ascends  that 
this  auxiliary  might  not  be  denied  him. 

His  eyes  are  riveted  upon  the  willowy  form,  lightly 
clad,  as  she  presses  on  in  the  middle  of  the  highway. 
She  is  at  the  rear,  for  her  promotion  is  yet  to  come. 
He  can  wait  no  longer,  casts  a  quick  glance  about 
him  to  be  sure  that  his  action  will  be  unnoticed,  then 
plunges  out  into  the  street  and  takes  his  place  beside 
the  girl,  gracefully  tapping  a  tambourine  as  she  walks. 

"  Hattie,"  he  said  gently,  "oh,  Hattie ! " 

She  turns  quickly;  a  swift  pallor  puts  the  flush 
upon  her  cheek  to  flight  as  her  glance  falls  upon  his 
face.  She  looks  again,  still  looking  as  if  she  could 
not  believe  her  eyes — then  stands  still  an  instant,  emo- 
tion and  surprise  almost  overpowering  her. 

"  Mr.  Wishart — is    it  you  ? "    she   cries  in  a  low 


AN   EDINBURGH    VOICE         225 

voice.  "  Oh,  why  have  you  done  this  ?  You  knew, 
you  knew — you  must  go  away  at  once,"  she  ex- 
claimed, her  feet  mechanically  taking  up  the  march 
again. 

Her  words  were  firm,  evidently  sincere,  almost 
stern — but  Stephen  notes,  seized  with  a  joy  he  had 
no  time  to  analyze,  that  the  voice  is  trembling,  and 
that  beneath  all  the  amazement  is  a  note  of  gladness. 
The  tambourine,  too,  is  thrust  into  her  right  hand, 
the  left  going  out  involuntarily,  withdrawn  almost  be- 
fore he  can  seize  it  in  his  own. 

"  Hattie,  Hattie — you  won't  send  me  away.  I've 
been  looking  for  you  so  long,"  he  almost  whispered, 
a  world  of  fondness  in  his  voice.  "  I'll  go — per- 
haps I'd  better  go,"  he  added,  "  but  tell  me  when  I 
can  see  you  again,  Hattie — anywhere,  any  time — 
only  tell  me  when." 

The  girl  turned  and  looked  into  his  face,  indiffer- 
ent to  the  curious  glances  that  one  or  two  in  front 
cast  back  at  her. 

"  No,  I  won't  ask  you  to  go  away,"  she  said  im- 
pulsively after  a  moment,  her  voice  low  and  earnest ; 
"  I  want  you  to  come.  You're  a  soldier  of  the  cross 
too,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  fall  out.  It  was  you 
that  enlisted  me,  you  know,"  she  pursued,  turning 
and  smiling  sweetly  as  she  spoke  ;  "  and  I  think  it's 
lovely  for  us  to  march  together.  We'll  go  on  to  the 
Barracks — and  I'll  ask  the  adjutant  to  have  you  speak 
at  the  meeting." 

"  Yes,  I'll  go,  Hattie,"  Stephen  answered  fervently, 
her  last  words  lost  upon  him  in  his  eagerness ;  for  it 


226  THE    UNDERTOW 

was  enough  to  him  to  know  that  he  was  beside  her 
again ;  "  and  I've  so  much  to  tell  you — so  much.  I 
saw  you  in  the  church  the  night  I  was  licensed — and 
didn't  you  see  me  ?  " 

"  We're  not  allowed  to  talk  when  we're  marching, 
and  you're  out  of  step,  see.  I  want  you  to  be  a  good 
soldier,  you  know ; "  and  it  was  difficult  to  tell 
whether  there  was  more  of  mirth  or  seriousness  in 
the  words. 

Little  of  speech  there  was  as  they  trudged  along 
the  muddy  street,  Hattie's  clear  voice  now  and  then 
lending  itself  to  the  song  that  cheered  the  way. 

Stephen  was  content  to  be  silent,  to  feel  that  he 
had  found  her,  that  he  was  near  to  her  again,  and 
that  his  hunger  of  the  heart  was  strangely  satisfied  in 
simply  knowing  that  she  was  by  his  side. 

Their  mutual  relation  had  been  strangely  reversed 
since  that  chilly  night  in  London  when  they  first 
had  met.  For  his  admiration  now  was  of  the  very 
spirit  he  himself  had  coveted  for  long,  but  had  not 
the  courage  to  acquire  ;  in  every  spiritual  sense  she 
was  now  the  protector,  and  his  the  soul  that  needed 
shelter. 

They  are  near  the  Barracks  now,  and  the  street  on 
which  it  stands  is  aflame  with  light.  Looking  about, 
he  notices,  dismayed,  that  two  familiar  figures  are 
beneath  the  lamp.  One  is  Mather,  and  the  other  a 
mutual  friend  whom  they  had  acquired  in  the  social 
life  to  which  Edinburgh  gives  its  student  visitors  so 
free  a  welcome. 

They  are  both  looking  toward  the  approaching 


AN  EDINBURGH   VOICE         227 

procession  ;  an  army  on  the  march  can  never  lose  its 
interest  for  the  most  cultured  or  contemptuous. 

The  struggle  in  Stephen's  mind  was  brief. 

"  Hattie,"  he  said  quickly,  the  expedient  suddenly 
occurring  to  him,  "  I'm  going  to  do  a  little  skirmish 
work — I  see  a  couple  of  loungers  and  I'm  going  to 
invite  them  into  the  barracks — you'll  excuse  me, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  That's  splendid,"  Hattie  cried,  her  face  beaming ; 
"  I'll  command  you.  You  see,  I'm  getting  to  be  an 
old  soldier  now — I  command  you  to  go  and  compel 
them  to  come  in.  And  I  want  you  to  speak,  re- 
member." 

He  left  her,  crossing  at  right  angles  to  the  pave- 
ment, remarking  with  satisfaction  that  his  friends 
were  still  absorbed  with  the  head  of  the  procession. 
Gaining  the  sidewalk,  he  walked  leisurely  along  till 
he  reached  them,  much  reassured  by  their  surprise  at 
tyis  appearance. 

"  By  Jove,"  he  heard  the  other  say  to  Mather,  "  I 
haven't  seen  a  prettier  girl  in  Edinburgh  than  that  one 
there  with  the  tambourine — that  one  at  the  end. 
Hello,  Wishart,  are  you  the  marshal  ?  "  as  Stephen 
suddenly  appeared. 

"  Hello,  you  fellows,"  he  rejoined ;  "  no,  I'm  the 
commander-in-chief.  Won't  you  fellows  go  in  and 
enlist  ?  "  he  added,  genially.  "  I'll  go  in  if  you  will 
— will  you  go  ?  " 

The  men  promptly  declined — one  of  them  laughed 
at  the  witticism.  But  Mather's  face  was  serious 
enough :  "  might  do  a  mighty  sight  worse,"  he 


228  THE   UNDERTOW 

mumbled.  "  I'd  sooner  be  those  fellows,  if  I  meant 
it,  than  be  an  actor  in  St.  Giles." 

"  Then  you  won't  go  in  ?  "  Stephen  asked.  "  I 
think  you're  making  a  mistake ;  let's  walk  down  to 
Princes  Street — I  haven't  long  in  Edinburgh  now 
and  there's  only  one  other  city  with  a  street  like 
that." 

"  Where  is  it  ?  "  his  companions  asked  together. 

"  In  the  New  Jerusalem,"  laughed  Stephen ; 
"  come  on,  it's  getting  late." 


XVIII 
PURSUING   The  PRECIOUS  PEARL 

STEPHEN  had  not  forgotten  the  hour  at  which 
the  kind-hearted  soldier  had  bidden  the  ex- 
pectant children  gather  at  Waverly  Station. 
And  long  before  ten  o'clock  Stephen  was  there  him- 
self, a  trifling  fee  securing  him  the  ambush  of  the 
baggage  office  and  the  outlook  from  its  window. 
From  which  he  watched  the  moving  scene  with  eyes 
that  were  often  blurred  with  tears. 

On  they  came,  in  breathless  haste,  early,  so  early, 
though  they  were.  Mostly  in  twos  and  twos  they 
came,  bare-headed  some — and  all  unshod — their  need 
attested  by  a  hundred  fluttering  tongues.  Many  had 
their  mothers  with  them,  as  excited  as  their  offspring, 
themselves  barred  from  the  excursion,  but  drinking 
deep  of  their  children's  joy.  Pitter-patter  came  the 
little  bare  feet  along  the  pavement  in  quick  agitated 
steps,  the  pilgrims  glancing  hither  and  thither  in 
nameless  fear  lest  the  train  had  gone,  so  used  were 
they  to  the  elusiveness  of  all  anticipated  pleasures. 

Brief  and  solemn  salutations  passed  between  hur- 
rying mothers ;  between  their  children,  none  at  all. 
And  many  of  the  motherless,  or  worse  than  mother- 
less, were  there,  guarded  by  older  sisters  whose  sense 
of  responsibility  was  pitiful  to  see.  Tenderly  they 
clung  to  the  tiny  hands,  plunging  this  way  and  that 

229 


250  THE    UNDERTOW 

in  their  search  for  the  coveted  positions  that  long  ex- 
perience had  made  them  think  could  scarce  be  theirs 
without  a  savage  struggle.  Some  were  bearing  tiny 
mugs,  others  with  the  sad  remains  of  ball  or  bat  or 
hoop  or  shovel,  that  they  vaguely  felt  might  find  a 
place  in  the  Elysian  fields  beyond. 

The  crowd  is  thickening,  the  combat  deepening ; 
for  they  are  being  entrained.  Stephen  was  almost 
in  despair.  The  face  he  longed  to  see  had  not  ap- 
peared— but  all  of  a  sudden  he  descries  it  in  the 
distance,  glowing  with  the  high  industry  of  love. 
He  breaks  out  from  his  hiding  place  ;  then  restrains 
himself  and  returns — for  a  new  purpose  has  come 
to  him. 

The  green  flag  is  flying,  the  whole  train  palpitat- 
ing with  a  thousand  organs  of  delight — and  the 
wheels  have  begun  to  turn. 

Then  Stephen  rushes  out,  thrusts  a  generous  coin 
into  the  hand  of  one  of  the  attendants  as  he  pulls 
open  the  compartment  door. 

"  It's  for  the  children,"  he  says,  "  and  I'm  going 
with  you — I'll  help  amuse  them  ; "  and  he  seats  him- 
self in  the  carriage,  taking  on  his  knee  the  grimy 
traveller  he  had  displaced. 

It  is  a  run  of  forty  miles,  but  it  takes  little  more 
than  as  many  minutes  ;  for  such  engines  have  human 
hearts.  And  in  an  hour  Stephen's  soul  is  again  in 
tumult,  as  he  sees  the  Arabs  spilled  into  the  fields, 
overflowing  them  like  quicksilver  suddenly  poured 
forth.  Tumult,  we  have  said — for  there  is  no  joy  so 
deep  as  that  which  springs  from  sorrow  ;  no  pathos  so 


PURSUING  The  PRECIOUS  PEARL      231 

plaintive  as  that  which  marks  the  joy,  the  simple  and 
unnatural  joy,  of  those  who  come  into  the  heritage 
they  should  have  never  been  denied,  hearing  at  last 
the  provisions  of  their  Father's  will,  marvelling  at 
the  riches  from  which  cruel  executors  have  shut 
them  out. 

Tears  run  down  his  face  as  he  watches  the  en- 
chanted waifs,  now  scampering  in  delirious  glee,  now 
shouting  in  incredulous  delight,  now  stooping  to 
pluck  some  brilliant  flower,  now  leaving  it  half 
plucked  because  of  some  richer  bloom  beyond. 

The  morning  has  died  in  laughter,  and  the  long 
dinner  hour  too  has  gone — gone  into  the  immortal 
keeping  of  a  thousand  memories.  Stephen  has 
watched  it  all  from  the  shelter  of  a  distant  tree,  mov- 
ing back  to  the  fringe  of  woodland  whenever  the  ap- 
proach of  one  particular  form  made  it  advisable  to 
retreat. 

With  what  strong  arms  she  flung  forth  the  creak- 
ing swing,  echoing  with  childish  shouts !  With 
what  tenderness  he  saw  her  bind  the  poor  foot  that  a 
thorn  had  pierced  or  a  stone  had  wounded,  bathing  it 
at  the  sparkling  brook  !  And  what  would  he  not 
have  given,  could  he  but  have  heard  that  wondrous 
story  that  could  alone  explain  the  breathless  group 
about  her,  looking  up  into  the  face  that  glowed  with 
the  spirit  of  the  tale !  And  blessed,  thrice  blessed, 
were  those  smudgy  hands  that  had  pinned  that  bunch 
of  violets  upon  her  bosom  ! 

She  must  be  tired  now ;  for  Stephen  can  see  her  as 


232  THE    UNDERTOW 

she  quietly  withdraws  from  the  group  of  children  she 
has  just  launched  upon  their  game. 

Slowly  she  walks  along  the  wold,  her  face  turned 
toward  the  fringe  of  woods  beyond  him.  He  hides 
behind  an  adjoining  knoll,  still  watching  as  she  bends 
her  way  farther  into  the  protecting  shadows.  The 
violets  are  in  her  hand  and  she  drinks  of  their  fra- 
grance as  she  walks.  He  follows  stealthily — how  fool- 
ish is  the  mind  of  love,  affirming  secretly  that  no 
fabric  ever  fluttered  so  gracefully  as  does  that  yield- 
ing muslin,  tossing  in  the  breeze,  or  pouting  as  it  is 
thrown  this  way  and  that  by  the  hurrying  feet.  For 
she  is  hurrying  now,  the  sweet  voice  of  the  woods 
calling  her  more  quickly  on,  eager  for  their  shelter 
and  caress. 

She  has  thrown  herself  upon  a  sunlit  couch  of 
richest  green,  drinking  deep  of  the  delicious  sweet- 
ness from  the  trees,  gazing  in  delight  at  the  beams 
that  fall  aslant  through  the  gleaming  leaves.  The 
spirit  of  her  early  home  is  upon  her,  and  the 
dream  of  all  its  sylvan  purity  and  innocence  comes 
back.  Down  the  stream  of  memory  her  thoughts 
quickly  flow — and  soon  he  sees  her  hand  go  forth  to 
the  soft  folds  of  her  dress,  some  white  thing  with- 
drawn in  its  grasp. 

The  breeze  is  chattering  among  the  leaves — and  he 
can  draw  closer  without  being  heard.  He  is  almost 
behind  her  now ;  and  his  heart  leaps  wildly  as  he  sees 
that  the  letter  she  is  reading  is  his  own. 

As  she  reads,  her  bosom  heaves  more  violently,  and 
he  can  note  the  girl's  emotion  from  where  he  stands. 


PURSUING  The  PRECIOUS  PEARL      233 

Again  her  hand  goes  to  where  the  letter  had  been 
hidden,  this  time  bringing  forth  the  tiny  handker- 
chief— perhaps  the  very  one  he  had  seen  that  night 
that  now  seemed  so  long  ago. 

His  eagerness  now  is  beyond  all  control.  He 
swears  to  himself  that  God  is  good — that  He  has  meant 
her  for  him  from  all  eternity.  The  summer  wind 
sweeps  through  the  trees  again,  as  with  the  sound  of 
triumph  ;  the  embannered  leaves  cheer  it  with  myriad 
voice ;  the  sun  breaks  forth  more  brightly — and  all 
things  seem  to  speak  of  life's  passing  sweetness.  He 
moves,  meaning  her  to  hear — but  she  is  reading,  still 
absorbed — and  his  movement  is  unnoticed.  Then  he 
makes  a  distincter  motion — and  in  a  moment  Hattie 
is  upon  her  feet,  trembling  in  every  limb. 

But  never  a  sound  she  spoke — gazing,  gazing  as  if 
he  had  risen  from  the  dead. 

"  Hattie — don't  be  so  frightened,  Hattie — please  sit 
down  again.  I  came  out  on  the  train  with  the  chil- 
dren. Let  me  sit  down  beside  you." 

His  eyes,  careless  that  she  knew,  were  feasting  on 
the  letter  she  still  held  in  her  hand.  But  she  did 
know,  as  her  crimson  face  made  clear ;  and  with  a 
quick  motion  she  thrust  it  out  of  sight. 

"  Yes,  it's  yours — of  course  it's  yours,"  she  said, 
blushing ;  "  I  always  read  letters  over  more  than 
once,"  she  went  on  defiantly ;  "  I  only  read  it  because 
I  wanted  to  see  what  it  said." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Stephen  said  nothing, 
holding  the  explanation  in  rapturous  contempt. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?  "  Hattie  said  at  last. 


234  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Me — I  came  on  the  train.     I  told  you  so." 

"  Why  weren't  you  at  the  Barracks  last  night  ?  I 
was  looking  for  you  ;  I  was  so  disappointed — I  wanted 
you  to  speak  to  them," — this  last  with  sudden  em- 
phasis. 

"  I  met  a  couple  of  fellows  I  knew — and  they 
wouldn't  go  in,"  Stephen  replied,  "  and  I  went  along 
to  Princes  Street  with  them." 

"  I'm  so  sorry ;  we  had  such  a  lovely  meeting. 
And  there  were  two  conversions — came  right  out  into 
the  light,  and  everybody  was  so  happy.  When  are 
you  going  back  to  Edinburgh  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — with  the  others,  I  suppose.  I'm 
going  away  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Going  away  !  Away  where  ?  "  and  the  colour 
that  left  Hattie's  face  found  its  abode  in  Stephen's  ; 
"  are  you  going  back  to  London  ?  " 

«  No — I'm  going  home,"  he  answered,  watching 
her  closely.  "  I  sail  on  Saturday." 

"  Sail !  Where  for  ?  "  the  girl  asked,  her  lip  mov- 
ing in  the  slightest  quiver,  "  where  will  you  sail  to  ?  " 

"  To  Montreal — then  I  go  home  from  there.  And 
then  I'm  going  to  Hamilton  to  be  the  minister  of  the 
Church  of  the  Covenant.  I  told  you  all  about  it  that 
afternoon  in  Hyde  Park." 

"  Yes,  you  told  me.  I  hope  you'll  be  happy — I 
hope  you'll  have  lots  of  conversions,"  she  added 
seriously.  "  I'm  so  happy  in  my  work — and  I  want 
you  to  be  happy  too — we're  both  soldiers  of  the 
cross,  you  know,"  the  delicate  lips  smiling  bravely  as 
she  spoke. 


PURSUING  The  PRECIOUS  PEARL      235 

"  Hattie,  where's  that  cross  of  yours  ? "  he  asked 
abruptly.  She  started  and  looked  at  him  as  if  she 
did  not  understand. 

"  Oh,  my  cross — my  mother's  cross,"  she  said  in  a 
moment ;  "  it's  here — it's  always  here,"  and  she  drew 
it  forth  with  reverent  touch. 

He  gazed  at  it  as  it  lay  upon  her  bosom.  "  Hattie 
— I'll  try  to  be  a  good  soldier  of  the  cross.  And  I'll 
never,  never  forget  this  one  of  yours — I  love  it  be- 
cause you  do." 

"  I  do  love  it,"  she  broke  in  eagerly, "  oh,  I  do  love 
it — and  I  want  to  be  worthy  of  it — and  to  tell  its 
power  to  everybody  that  needs  it.  If  I  weren't  so 
unworthy,  I  wouldn't  love  it  so,"  she  cried,  the  tears 
standing  in  her  eyes. 

Stephen  was  struggling.  The  light  of  love,  of  pity, 
of  pure  religion,  was  on  her  face,  never  so  beautiful 
as  now  when  the  sun's  rays  gently  kissed  the  trans- 
parent cheek,  her  sunny  hair  blending  with  the 
golden  glint.  He  can  see  the  mist  before  her  eyes, 
and  a  strange  union  of  compassion  and  reverence 
wrings  his  heart. 

"  Yes,  Hattie,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  I  shall  al- 
ways love  the  cross  because  you  wear  it,"  and,  stoop- 
ing forward,  he  took  the  tiny  symbol  in  his  hands 
and  raised  it  gently  to  his  lips.  Her  breath,  in  mad- 
dening sweetness,  is  on  his  face.  k 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  Presbyterian,"  she  said,  the 
witching  smile  playing  again  about  her  mouth.  "  I'll 
tell  that  old  lady  that  keeps  John  Knox's  house  on 
the  High  Street." 


236  THE    UNDERTOW 

But  there  was  no  smile  on  Stephen's  face.  A 
rapturous  look  instead,  fastened  on  her  till  her  eyes 
retreated  before  the  wondrous  meaning  she  could  not 
fail  to  see.  Nor  did  he  turn  his  eyes  away,  still  look- 
ing with  fervent  eagerness. 

"  Let's  go  back,"  she  cried  faintly  at  last,  "  they'll 
miss  me." 

But  the  billow  had  overswept  him  now. 

"  Yes,  my  darling,"  he  cried,  "  yes,  they'll  miss  you 
— they'll  miss  you.  As  I  have  done,  Hattie,  Hattie, 

my  darling.  You  know — you  know "  and  the 

half  fainting  form  is  in  his  arms,  weakly  protesting  as 
she  hears  the  fiery  words.  "  Oh,  Hattie,  you  are 
mine — you  know  you're  mine,"  he  cried;  and  the 
breeze  seemed  to  die  away,  great  peace  keeping  guard 
above  them,  the  faint  sound  of  childish  cries  betoken- 
ing a  distant  world.  "  You've  always  been  mine — 
and  I  shall  never  let  you  go — mine,  ever  since  that 
night,  my  darling,"  and  one  hand  strokes  the  burning 
cheek  while  the  other  gently  turns  the  lovely  face 
nearer  to  his  own. 

Reverently,  his  lips  descend  slowly  upon  hers, 
moist  with  love's  anointing — and  Stephen  tastes  the 
new  and  nameless  wine  of  a  soul  that  has  found  its 
own  in  pure  and  holy  love  at  last. 

Long,  long  they  sat  together,  forgetting  that 
there  was  any  waiting  world — or  any  duty — or 
any  mystery,  except  the  new  found  mystery  of 
love. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,"  Hattie  said  at  length,  "  we  must 
go  back.  It  seems  to  me,"  she  added,  as  her  hand 


PURSUING  The  PRECIOUS  PEARL      237 

stole  again  into  his, "  that  I  said  that  same  thing 
years  ago — it  seems  like  years  ago." 

"  So  long,"  Stephen  asked,  "  what  makes  it  seem 
so  long  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  like  as  if  a  lot  of  years  had  passed — and 
all  winters — all  cold,  cold  winters.  And  this  seems 
like  the  first  spring  day.  I'm  so  happy,  dear — and  to 
think  it  was  for  all  this  God  led  me  out  into  the  dark- 
ness— into  the  forest.  But  the  sweetest  flowers  grow 
in  the  forest — we  know  that,  don't  we,  dear  ?  "  she 
cried  gayly  as  Stephen  kissed  the  trembling  laughing 
lips. 

They  are  almost  beyond  the  woodland  now,  the 
shout  of  the  revellers  growing  more  distinct.  Hattie 
suddenly  turned  and  hid  her  face  on  Stephen's 
shoulder ;  a  slight  sob  shook  her  frame. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Hattie ;  what's  the  matter,  my 
darling  ?  " 

Only  silence  for  a  moment.  He  pleads  again, 
turning  his  ear,  ravished  by  their  breath,  to  the  sweet 
pouting  lips.  At  length  she  whispers  : 

"  It's  about  Saturday — oh,  Stephen,  you  won't  go 
away  from  me — tell  me  you  won't." 

Gently  he  tried  to  comfort  her,  sinking  to  the 
ground  and  drawing  her  down  beside  him.  "  I  must, 
my  dear  one — I  have  to  go.  I  have  to  take  my 
church,  you  know — and  they're  waiting  for  me." 

Still  she  remonstrated  with  sweet  persuasiveness. 

"  I've  had  such  a  lonely  life,"  she  murmured,  "  and 
now  it'll  be  worse  than  ever.  I'll  be  all  alone  again, 
Stephen." 


THE    UNDERTOW 

His  eyes  are  fixed  on  unseen  glades,  peering  back 
Into  the  woods.  They  see  nothing — nothing  out- 
ward. But  had  any  seen  his  face  they  might  have 
known  that  a  great  resolve  was  forming.  Still  he 
gazes,  still  absorbed  in  some  thought  that  had  evi- 
dently gripped  his  soul. 

The  girl  ^feels  the  silence  and  nestles  closer,  as  if 
.she  would  provoke  some  response  to  her  plaintive 
words.  His  resolve  is  taken ;  for  his  arms  tighten 
about  her,  and  his  face  is  bended  low. 

"  Hattie,  my  darling — you  know  I  love  you,  don't 
you  ?  God  knows  it ;  knows  my  soul  is  yours — and 
His.  And  Hattie— Hattie,  it's  to  be  till  death,  isn't 
it,  my  darling  ?  " 

The  fluttering  heart  made  answer. 

"  Then,  Hattie,  there's  something  I'm  going  to  say 
— I  say  it  before  God  and  you — and  you  shan't  deny 
me."  Then  he  takes  her  anew  into  his  arms,  his  lips 
to  her  very  ear,  whispering  slowly.  She  listens, 
breathless.  Trembling,  she  trembles  closer.  "  Oh, 
Stephen,  don't,"  she  falters,  "  don't — oh,  Stephen." 

Whereat  he  insists  afresh  ;  and  renews  his  quest 
with  redoubled  power  and  insistence. 

The  ill-matched  struggle  is  soon  over.  "  Stephen, 
my  darling — oh,  Stephen," — she  is  sobbing  fast — 
"  don't  force  me — let  it  be  my  will — my  wish.  And 
it  is,  Stephen — I  think  it  is.  I  will — yes — I  will. 
You  really  think  God  wants  us  to  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  will — 
I  will — only  let  it  be  all  over  quick,"  she  cried,  the 
tears  flowing  hot  as  she  clung  to  him  for  some  un- 
known protection. 


PURSUING  The  PRECIOUS  PEARL      239 

Whereat  he  kissed  her  again  and  again,  calling  her 
tender  names,  and  soothing  her  as  though  she  had 
been  wounded  by  some  unseen  shaft. 

"  You'll  never  be  sorry,  Hattie — no,  please  God, 
you'll  never  be  sorry,"  he  whispered  as  he  caressed 
her ;  "  come,  let  us  be  going — the  sun  is  sinking." 

Together  they  started  on  through  the  angle  of  the 
woods  to  where  the  hamlet  could  be  seen  in  the 
distance. 

She  waited  in  the  churchyard  while  Stephen  was 
gone,  her  mind  numb  with  a  sort  of  singing  joy.  He 
soon  came  back,  the  necessary  errand  over — the 
necessary  warrant  in  his  hand. 

The  aged  minister,  in  his  flowing  gown,  led  the 
way  into  the  ancient  church,  his  gentle  wife  and  their 
one  faithful  servant  following  in  the  rear.  And  as 
the  trembling  hands  were  laid  upon  their  heads  in 
blessing,  committing  these  unknown  to  one  another 
and  to  God,  the  unbidden  sun  stole  in  and  closed  his 
far  flung  labours  of  the  day,  kissing  into  beauty  the 
glistening  drops  that  spoke  the  bridal  joy. 

"  Stephen,"  she  asked  as  they  were  walking  slowly 
back,  and  he  could  scarcely  hear  the  words ;  "  are 
you  still  going  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  darling,"  he  replied  with  desperate 
promptness — for  his  mind  had  not  been  unbusied  with 
the  thought. 

"  Away  from  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darling — I  must  go.  Don't  make  it  harder, 
dear." 


240  THE    UNDERTOW 

A  long  pause  followed. 

"  I  shan't  make  it  harder,  Stephen."  Then  silence 
once  more. 

Soon  the  voice  spoke  again,  trembling  pain- 
fully. 

"  Stephen,  are  you  going  to  take  me  with  you  ?  " 

In  answer  he  poured  his  love  and  devotion  at  her 
feet.  All  he  said  is  not  for  us  to  know  ;  but  all  the 
impossibility — and  unwisdom — of  it  was  laid  bare, 
the  brave  heart  bearing  it  as  best  she  could. 

"  Stephen,  I'm  your  wife — am  I  not,  Stephen — 
anyhow — always  ?  " 

"  My  darling,  my  own,"  he  murmured ;  "  and  it 
will  not  be  long.  And  I'll  tell  them  all — tell  them 
all  about  you,  and  how  I  love  you.  And  I'll  soon 
come  back  for  you — or  send  for  you.  But  they 
wouldn't  understand  now,  as  I  explained  to  you — 
they're  such  sensitive  people." 

"  I'll  try  to  be  bravs  and  strong.  But  you  must 
pray  for  me,  Stephen — you  must  help  me,  for  you're 
stronger  than  I  am.  And  I'll  always  pray  for  you, 
my — my  husband,"  she  said,  smiling  sweetly  up  to 
his  bending  face. 

"  Yes,  my  darling,  I  know  you  will — and  you'll  go 
on  with  your  work,  Hattie  ;  and  I'll  go  on  with  mine. 
And  soon  we'll  begin  our  work  together — never, 
never  to  part  again,  my  dearest,"  he  assured  her,  his 
whole  soul  in  the  words. 

"  Hattie,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something,"  he  sud- 
denly resumed — "  something  I've  always  been  afraid 
of — but  it's  all  past  now." 


PURSUING  'The  PRECIOUS  PEARL      241 

"  What  ? "  she  asked  hastily,  herself  alarmed ; 
"  what  was  it,  Stephen — anything  about  us  two  ?  " 

"  No,  my  darling — I'll  tell  you.  I  ought  to  tell 
you  anyhow.  You  know,  Hattie,  I've  not  always 
been  good." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  protested ;  "  all  good 
people  say  that." 

"  No,  I'm  serious,  Hattie — listen  to  me.  I've  been 
far  from  good.  I  can't  tell  you  how — and  I  was  al- 
ways afraid  God  would  punish  me  by  teaching  me  to 
love,  and  then  letting  me  see  I  couldn't — I  couldn't — 
have  the  one  I  loved.  And  I  was  almost  sure  of  it 
when  I  thought  I  had  lost  you,  my  darling.  But  it's 
all  past  now — I  never  believed  in  the  love  of  God  as 
I  do  now.  I  see  He  has  forgiven  me  everything ; 
what  I  feared  is  all  past  and  gone — and  my  life's  hap- 
piness is  sure  now,  my  darling." 

"  Yes,  God  is  good,"  Hattie  murmured  happily ; 
"  nobody  really  knows  it  but  me." 

"  And  me,  Hattie — and  me  !  Yes,  the  cloud's  all 
gone  now — and  I'll  try  to  forget — like  God  has  for- 
gotten ; "  and  his  face  shone  with  the  peace  he 
thought  was  his  forever. 

For  Stephen  had  forgotten  that  there  are  full  twelve 
hours  in  God's  unhasting  day. 


XIX 

OLD  SCENES  and   OLD   STRUGGLES 

O,  it's  not  so  beautiful  perhaps — but  it's 
their  own." 

The  speaker,  who  was  none  other  than 
Stephen  Wishart,  felt  a  thrill  of  gladness  such  as  the 
stately  homes,  and  the  mighty  oaks,  and  the  rolling 
hillsides  of  old  England,  had  never  started  in  his 
heart  by  their  beauty. 

Past  many  a  humble  farmhouse,  beautiful  in  its 
contentment ;  past  many  a  whistling  toiler,  following 
his  horses  on  their  homeward  way  ;  past  many  a  low- 
ing herd  with  their  faces  seriously  set  toward  home  ; 
past  slowly  darkening  woods  ;  and  over  many  an  un- 
resting stream,  donning  more  sober  garments  for  the 
long  journey  of  the  night,  the  train  bore  him 
quickly  on. 

"  Aye,  ye're  richt  there,"  replied  the  man  in  the 
seat  beside  him,  Richard  Reynoldson  by  name ; 
"  aye,  castles  is  graun  i'  their  way,  nae  doot — but  I'd 
raither  hae  a  bit  hoose  I  cud  call  my  ain,  as  a  castle 
whaur  I  was  little  better  as  a  slave.  Yon  man  owns 
his  land — an'  yon  man — an'  that's  the  widow  Broon's. 
She  sent  twa  o'  her  sons  to  the  college — an'  she  was 
a  milkin'  maid  i'  Scotland.  It'll  no'  be  lang  noo  till 
ye  can  see  yir  faither's  farm." 

242 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    243 

"  I'll  be  right  glad  to  see  it  again,"  said  Stephen, 
gazing  far  ahead  out  of  the  window ;  "  how's  every- 
thing going  with  them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  graun — fair  graun.  Did  ye  no'  hear  o'  their 
guid  fortune  ?  " 

«  No — what  ?  Have  they  struck  anything  particu- 
larly good  ?  "  Stephen  asked  eagerly. 

"  I  should  say  they  hae.  They've  been  findin'  ile 
near  the  village — an'  they're  borin'  for  ile  on  yir 
faither's  farm.  An'  there's  nae  doot  they'll  find  it 
It's  mair  nor  likely  they  hae  it  already." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  so,"  Stephen  cried ; 
"  isn't  that  splendid  ?  " 

"  That's  no'  a' — timber's  gone  till  a  fearsome 
price.  An'  yir  faither,  ye  ken,  aye  keepit  that  bush 
o'  his — he  was  aye  a  far  seein'  man,  yir  faither.  An' 
it's  the  best  o'  pine,  as  ye  ken.  Weel,  a  Syndicate's 
been  after  it;  an'  they've  offert  him  thoosands — 
thoosands  mind,  I'm  tellin'  ye — for  his  bush.  An' 
he'll  get  mair  yet.  So  he'll  strike  ile,  the  yin  way  or 
the  ither." 

The  conversation  flowed  on  in  various  channels, 
Stephen  enquiring  for  sundry  neighbours  and  ac- 
quaintances of  the  old  days. 

"  Aye,  maistly  a'  the  countryside's  been  weel, 
thank  God.  It's  a  guid  wholesome  land  to  live  in — 
the  saddest  thing  was  aboot  the  Burnetts — ye  ken 
aboot  them,  nae  doot." 

Stephen  started,  turning  toward  the  man  with 
more  eagerness  than  he  himself  was  aware  of. 

"  No,  what  ?     I've  heard  nothing,  Mr.  Reynold- 


244  THE    UNDERTOW 

son.  Tell  me  quick,  please — nothing  about — about 
— Miss  Burnett,  is  it  ?  "  his  face  noticeably  pale. 

"  Na,  na,  she's  a'  richt — only  sair  pit  aboot,  as  ye 
micht  expect.  An'  she's  had  to  pit  her  mairrage  aff, 
nae  doot.  Ye  ken  aboot  her  an'  Reuben,  of 
course  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes — but  what's  she  sore  put  about  for  ? 
You  haven't  told  me." 

"  Her  faither  went  till  his  rest  less  than  a  month 
past.  I  daurna  say  where  he  went  for  certain,  nae 
doot — for  that's  wi'  God.  But  I'm  hopin' — he  had 
dyin'  grace,  they  say.  I  thocht  ye  kent  it;  they 
wrote  till  ye." 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  interrupted,  his  features  showing 
his  agitation  ;  "  but  I  sailed  two  weeks  ago  or  so,  and 
the  letter  wouldn't  be  there  by  that  time.  How  are 
Bessie  and  her  mother  ?  " 

"  Bessie's  weel.  An'  her  mither's  better  far,  I'm 
hopin' — but  it's  no'  for  me  to  say,"  the  man  replied 
gravely. 

"  Better  far !  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  don't 
mean ?  " 

"  Aye,  that's  what  I'm  meanin',  Stephen.  She 
wasna  lang  ahint  him — a  week  or  thereaboots.  It 
was  the  will  o'  God — and  bad  watter  frae  the  well ; 
ower  close  to  the  stable,  they  say.  That  was  what 
ailed  them  baith — they  drank  frae  the  same  well  for 
forty  year.  An'  she  had  dyin'  grace,  they  tell  me — 
yon  was  a  deeper  spring  they  aye  drank  frae 
thegither.  I  was  a  pall-bearer,"  he  added,  a  touch 
of  pride  in  his  voice ;  "  an'  that  maks  thirty-five — 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    245 

that's  yin  guid  turn  as  never  gets  anither."  And  the 
strong  Scotch  face  looked  mournfully  out  upon  the 
fields,  pursuing  the  sombre  calculation. 

"  And  Bessie — where's  Bessie  now  ? "  his  com- 
panion urged ;  "  is  she  at  the  old  farmhouse  yet  ?  " 

"  Aye,  that's  where  she  is.  The  hoosekeeper's 
wi'  her — the  same  kind  o'  body  they  hae  at  yir 
faither's  hoose.  Mr.  Shearer  says  she's  bein'  wun- 
nerfu'  upborne  by  the  consolations  o'  the  Gos- 
pel." 

"  Those  will  never  fail,"  said  Stephen,  minister- 
elect  of  the  Covenant  Church. 

"  And  she  has  ither  consolations,  forbye — she  disna 
mourn  like  them  as  has  no  hope — nor  naethin'  else 
but  hope.  She  gets  the  whole  o't."  And  the  good 
man's  face  shows  how  unbounded  is  his  confidence 
in  both  these  kinds  of  comfort;  "she  gets  the  farm 
— twa  hunnert  acres,  maistly  cleared;  an'  a  guid 
pickle  o'  money  forbye.  Bessie's  got  naethin'  to 
grieve  aboot — exceptin'  her  faither  an"  mither,  of 
course,"  he  added,  bent  on  accuracy. 

A  long  silence  ensued.  "  They'll  be  glad  to  see 
ye  hame  again,"  his  friend  renewed.  "  We  a'  kenned 
when  ye  was  comin' — that's  why  I  was  on  the  watch 
for  ye  when  I  got  on.  A'  the  neebours  kens — they 
ken  the  vera  train.  We're  hopin'  ye'll  be  preachin* 
for  us  i'  the  kirk.  Mr.  Shearer'll  be  askin'  ye,  nae 
doot." 

"  How  is  Mr.  Shearer  ?  "  Stephen  enquired  quickly, 
for  the  last  suggestion  was  lost  on  him.  He  was 
thinking  of  something  else — of  a  fair  and  lovely  face 


246  THE    UNDERTOW 

that  seemed  to  pass  before  him  now  in  the  new-born 
comeliness  of  grief. 

"  Mr.  Shearer — oh,  he's  fine.  He  wears  graun. 
He's  been  giein'  us  the  old  gospel  wi'  new  power — 
an'  the  kirk's  mair  crowded  as  it  was  years  syne. 
The  folk  soon  ken  where  there's  a  spring — there'll 
aye  be  a  well  worn  path  till  a  spring,  Stephen.  But 
there's  mony  a  bonny  bowl  that's  dry  as  a  whustle 
when  ye  come  thirstin'  for  a  drink,  ye  ken." 

"  That's  true,"  replied  Stephen  ;  "  do  you  have  the 
same  old  service  you  always  had  ?  "  he  pursued. 

"  Aye,  juist  the  same — what  for  no'  ?  A  spring 
doesna  change — not  if  it's  God's,  onyway.  Mr. 
Shearer's  nane  o'  yir  changin'  kind.  What  div  ye 
think  some  o'  the  new  fangled  folk  was  wantin'  ? 
The  session  settled  them  fine." 

"  I  really  couldn't  imagine,"  said  Stephen  ;  "  what 
was  it,  Mr.  Reynoldson  ?  " 

"  They  was  for  puttin'  oot  the  auld  hoods — wi1  the 
lang  stick  at  the  end,  that  we  tak  up  the  collection 
wi'.  Ye'll  mind  them  fine.  They  was  wantin' 
plates,  siller  plates,  puir  bodies.  Siller  plates  !  Clat- 
terin'  wi'  noise — like  hens  pickin'  aff  a  barn  floor. 
An'  after  we've  had  the  ither  for  fifty  year,  mind 
ye.  An'  wi'  the  plates,  onybody  can  see  what  ye're 
giein'.  'Twad  be  takin'  their  thochts  awa'  frae 
the  sermon.  Naebody  can  tell  what  ye  gie,  wi'  the 
hoods.  Yir  left  hand  doesna  ken  what  yir  richt 
hand's  daein' — an'  that  suits  the  Scotch  folk  fine. 
Onyway,  the  session  settled  them." 

They  were  now  upon  ground  well  known  to  them 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    247 

both,  recognizing  every  farmhouse  as  they  passed. 
Stephen's  communicative  friend  was  engaged  with 
a  new-noticed  acquaintance  across  the  aisle,  giving 
forth  his  soul  freely  as  before. 

Of  which  Stephen  was  sincerely  glad  ;  for  with  the 
old  familiar  scenes  there  came  echoes  of  the  old  fa- 
miliar struggle  in  his  heart.  Rising,  he  takes  his 
place  by  a  window  on  the  other  side  of  the  car — the 
side  on  which  he  had  sat  when  last  he  looked  upon 
these  spreading  acres.  (Was  it  not  poor  Pliable,  ac- 
cording to  Bunyan's  master  pen,  who  clambered  out 
of  the  slough  "  on  the  side  nearest  to  his  own 
house  "  ?) 

A  strange  unrest  he  felt,  touched  with  something 
that  he  thought  was  past  forever.  Great  joy,  great 
love,  great  purpose — all  these  he  thought  had  joined 
to  strike  it  dead.  And  a  sort  of  stern  anguish  came 
over  him  as  he  felt  the  old  struggle  begin  anew. 

His  face  is  pressed  close  against  the  window,  while 
the  plunging  train  bounds  on  as  if  conscious  of  the 
nearing  goal.  The  far-spreading  arms  of  a  fence 
that  had  been  built  of  stumps,  the  first  production  of 
the  soil,  breaks  upon  him.  Giant  roots,  that  strong 
arms  had  torn  from  their  hiding  place,  tangled  in  fan- 
tastic fashion,  spread  hither  and  thither  in  pictur- 
esque abundance.  Nothing  like  this  has  he  seen 
since  he  went  this  way  before.  Then  his  soul  catches 
the  fragrance  of  the  thorn — for  he  remembers — he 
remembers — how  he  had  mechanically  noted  this 
same  rude  fence  while  his  heart  was  still  riotous  with 
the  vanished  picture.  The  blossoming  thorn  and  the 


248  THE    UNDERTOW 

lifeless  roots  had  lingered  in  his  mind  together.  And 
his  eyes  leap  onward  with  the  leaping  train. 

It  is  but  a  moment.  Its  foliage  swims  into  his 
view,  gilded  with  the  dying  sun  ;  and  a  sensation  of 
dizziness  seizes  him  as  he  beholds — for  he  had  not 
hoped  for  it — he  would  have  prayed  against  it — 
beholds  a  maiden's  form  again  beneath  the  tree.  And 
the  tall  figure  is  robed  in  black ;  but  he  would  know 
it  anywhere — for  the  flowing  tresses  have  no  thought 
of  mourning,  while  the  white  hand  that  seeks  to  re- 
strain their  merriment,  and  the  other  that  gently 
waves  a  snow-white  signal  toward  the  train,  tell  the 
trembling  Stephen  that  there  are  certain  things 
against  which  death  and  grief  are  powerless. 

Whereupon  he  clutches  at  the  memory  of  Hattie. 
And  his  love  for  his  wife  springs  like  a  fountain  in 
his  heart — but  the  enemy's  face,  he  marvels,  does  not 
disappear.  "  I  was  here  first,"  it  seemed  to  mutter  sul- 
lenly ;  and  it  called  to  its  aid  a  score  of  loyal  henchmen, 
some  bearing  the  livery  of  Memory,  and  some  the  in- 
signia of  Imagination — till  Stephen's  chaster  thought 
lay  among  them  all  like  that  sacred  tomb  among  the 
Saracens  of  old. 

"  Oh,  God,  let  my  deliverance  draw  nigh,"  he  cries 
within  him.  Then  he  looks  swiftly  back — and  catches 
but  one  swift  glimpse  of  fluttering  black — then  prays 
again.  "  I  must  be  quick  about  getting  to  my  life- 
work,"  he  murmurs  to  himself ;  "  and  then  I'll  have 
peace  at  last." 

Reuben's  beaming  face  is  the  first  he  sees  when  he 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    249 

alights  at  the  station.  The  towering  form  seems 
taller  and  straighter  than  ever.  And  the  honest  eyes 
that  look  out  at  him  are  rilled  with  an  honest  joy  that 
had  never  been  there  before. 

The  hearty  greeting  is  soon  over  and  the  brothers 
driving  homeward.  "  Isn't  this  a  new  carriage, 
Reuben  ? " 

"  Yes,  just  bought  it  yesterday — we've  struck  oil, 
Steve,"  and  Reuben's  face  was  jubilant. 

"  Have  you  really  ?  You  thought  I  didn't  know — 
but  Mr.  Reynoldson  was  on  the  train  and  he  told  me 
about  it ;  only  he  didn't  know  if  you  had  actually  got 
it.  Tell  me  about  it,  Rube."  And  Stephen  nestled 
back  in  the  luxurious  first-fruits. 

Nothing  loath,  Reuben  entered  on  the  wondrous 
story,  pointing  to  the  numerous  tripods  that  could  be 
seen  in  the  distance. 

"  And  we've  been  offered  sixty  thousand,  Steve — 
sixty  thousand  dollars — so  that  ought  to  mean  a  hun- 
dred, when  they  offered  sixty.  And  when  these  tires 
get  worn  out  we  can  get  more,"  viewing  the  costly 
upholstery  with  smiling  satisfaction. 

Their  talk  flowed  on.  "  Everything's  happy, 
Steve,"  said  Reuben.  "  I  don't  know  anything  in  my 
life  I  want  that  I  haven't  got.  Except  mother — and 
we've  still  got  her ;  she's  more  with  me,  anyhow,  than 
she  ever  was — and  more  to  me,  too — and  I  know 
she's  happy.  And  I'm  just  waiting  for  one  thing, 
Steve — you  know  what  that  is,"  he  added,  a  slight 
colour  showing  through  the  tan.  "  Of  course  we 
have  to  wait  a  while  now.  I  don't  see  why — I  don't 


250  THE    UNDERTOW 

want  to — but  Bessie  insists  on  it.  What  do  you 
think  yourself,  Steve  ?  Do  you  think  that's  any  rea- 
son— I  mean  about  Bessie's  father  and  mother — why 
we  shouldn't  get  married  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — how  could  I  know  ?  "  Stephen  an- 
swered. Then,  after  a  long  silence :  "  But  since 
you've  asked  me,  I  think  you  ought  not  to  wait — 
decidedly." 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  should,  either.  You  talk  to 
Bessie — Bessie's  coming  over  to-night.  There'll  just 
be  ourselves,  all  together — see,  there's  father  at  the 
gate." 

Suddenly  the  gate  is  thrown  wide,  and  the  old 
man  strides  forth — more  bent,  more  snowy,  than 
before.  But  the  spring  of  youth  is  in  his  step. 

His  arms  are  about  his  son.  "Welcome  hame, 
my  laddie,"  he  cries,  "  welcome  back  to  yir  faither's 
hoose.  Ye're  lookin'  brawly.  Ye're  mair  an'  mair 
like  yir  mither,  my  laddie.  Come  ben  the  hoose; 
come  ben — it's  no  been  like  itsel'  sin  ye  went  a\va'. 
Ye've  been  in  mony  a  graun  hoose,  nae  doot — but 
there's  nae  place  like  hame." 

Something  like  peace  stole  about  his  embattled 
heart  as  the  returning  wanderer  saw  again  the  severe 
and  simple  surroundings  of  the  humble  house.  He 
threw  himself  upon  the  couch,  looking  about  the 
room,  unchanged  since  he  had  left. 

"  Aye,  she's  tickin'  awa',"  his  father  said  as 
Stephen's  gaze  fell  upon  the  clock ;  "  she's  a  trusty 
yin.  I  haena  heard  her  ring  sae  blithesome  sin  that 
nicht  she  stoppit,"  and  a  shade  of  sadness  fell  on  the 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    25  r 

strong  features  as  he  glanced  quickly  toward  the  little 
room.  "  An'  ilka  time  she  chimes  the  hour,  I  say 
'  I'm  comin' ;  aye,  I'm  comin',  mither  ' — an'  I  dinna 
doot  she  hears.  An  auld  man  like  me  has  nae  friend 
like  the  clock." 

"  Don't  talk  that  way,  father,"  pleaded  Stephen ; 
"  I  hope  you'll  have  long  years  with  us  yet." 

"  It's  a'  richt,  Stephen.  I'm  no'  complainin'.  I 
hae  treasure  baith  here  an'  yonner — but  maistly 
yonner.  An'  yir  ain  hame-comin'  the  nicht  maks 
me  think  o'  the  meetin'  i'  the  better  land — it'll  be  fair 
rapture,  my  laddie." 

Then  Stephen  introduced  the  subject  of  the  rich 
fortune  their  land  had  so  suddenly  disclosed ;  but  he 
found  his  father's  pleasure  chastened  and  subdued. 

"  It  cam  ower  late,"  the  old  man  said ;  "  it's  ower 
late.  She  should  hae  had  a  holiday.  An'  to  think 
the  ile  was  there  a'  the  time.  But  she's  restin'  noo," 
he  concluded,  deep  peace  upon  his  face. 

This  was  followed  by  a  long  stillness,  broken  at 
last  by  his  father's  voice : 

"  Let's  gang  oot — there's  somebody  at  the  gate. 
It'll  be  Bessie ;  she  was  comin'  ower." 

Bessie  and  Reuben  were  approaching;  and  the 
girl's  greeting  was  full  of  shy  embarrassment  as  she 
laid  her  hand  in  his. 

His  earnest  words  of  consolation  were  fast  followed 
by  faltering  words  of  congratulation — but  they  were 
interrupted.  "  Which  train  did  you  come  in  on  ?  " 
she  asked.  He  gave  some  stammering  answer,  won- 
dering the  while ;  but  Reuben  cried  : 


252  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Why,  Bessie,  what  a  strange  question — I  told  you 
only  this  morning  the  train  Steve  was  coming  on. 
Besides,  there  isn't  any  other." 

Little  of  speech  passed  between  them  as  they  sat 
together.  But  Stephen  was  inwardly  aware  that  the 
girl's  eyes  were  never  withdrawn  from  his  face.  The 
lamp  is  lighted  presently — for  the  darkness  has  crept 
about  them — and  Stephen  starts  as  their  eyes  meet 
at  last 

For  Bessie  looks  older — so  much  older — and  the 
sweetness  of  her  bloom  seems  to  be  touched  with 
something  that  was  not  there  before,  as  though  she 
had  struggled  and  not  prevailed. 

And  as  he  looks  once  and  again,  and  swiftly,  into 
her  eyes,  he  feels  how  different  is  the  message  from 
that  which  other,  purer  depths  had  given  back.  But 
yet — and  herein  was  the  bitterness  of  it, — each,  com- 
ing, found  something  in  him,  and  both  in  turn  had 
fleeting  place  as  the  ruling  motive  of  his  soul. 

"  Where  is  Hiram  now  ?  "  he  asked  his  father  ab- 
ruptly, glad  of  the  digression.  "  Reuben  told  me 
about  his  coming  into  money." 

"  Hiram  !  Ye  may  weel  ask,"  his  father  answered 
smiling ;  "  he's  far  above  the  likes  o'  us.  Aboot  this 
time,  Hiram'll  be  puttin'  on  yin  o'  thae  coats  wi' 
the  turkey-gobbler  tails — like  the  singers  i'  the  city 
kirks.  Or  mebbe  he'll  be  tellin'  the  butler  to  open 
anither  crock  o'  champagne.  Or  it's  mair  nor  likely 
he'll  be  tellin'  his  gairdner  to  fling  a  palm  ower  the 
fence  an'  get  a  new  yin.  Or  he'll  mebbe  be  bid- 
din'  his  footman  shove  his  gairter  unner  his  trowser 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    253 

knees.  But  I'll  tell  ye  what  he's  likeliest  to  be 
daein'." 

"  What  will  it  be,  father  ?  "  Stephen  asked  laugh- 
ing. 

"  He'll  be  pickin'  oot  two  or  three  bonny  bit  sins 
to  confess  till  the  priest  He's  a  Catholic  noo,  ye 
ken — Hiram  gained  the  whole  world  an'  lost  his  ain 
soul — 'twas  a  sair  trade  for  Hiram,"  and  the  old  man 
shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  Well,"  Reuben  said  suddenly, "  I  don't  know  what 
Hiram's  doing  now — but  I  know  what  I'll  have  to  be 
doing,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  I  promised  to  meet  a  man 
from  Cleveland  at  the  village  to-night — and  I'm 
afraid  I'll  have  to  be  going.  Hope  you'll  excuse  me 
for  a  little,  Stephen." 

"  By  all  means,  Rube — certainly.  I'm  glad  busi- 
ness is  so  pressing.  I  suppose  it's  about  the  oil," 
Stephen  assented  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  it's  about  selling  him  a  well.  I  won't  be 
long,  Bessie — not  long  at  all ;  I'll  be  back  in  lots  of 
time  to  walk  home  with  you.  You  just  chat  away 
till  I  get  back." 

Reuben  is  gone.  Deep  silence  fells.  Stephen's 
eyes  rest  on  her  who  had  been  almost  forgotten  till 
this  very  day ;  his  thought  is  still  beyond  the  sea. 

Yet,  as  in  many  another  dwelling-place,  the  secret 
guest  chamber  of  the  soul  may  harbour  to-night  the 
prophet  of  the  living  God ;  and  the  succeeding  night 
some  leprous  face  of  sin  will  rest  upon  the  selfsame 
pillow.  Thus  came  and  went,  in  silent  alternation, 
the  shadowy  guests  that  had  so  often  found  their  rest 


254  THE    UNDERTOW 

in  Stephen's  unhappy  and  impartial  heart.  He 
thought  of  the  face  so  far  away,  rosy  now  with  the 
kiss  of  slumber,  smiling  mayhap  with  the  dream  of 
a  loyal  heart  beyond  the  wave.  Then  he  thought  of 
the  face  that  was  so  near,  its  fevered  light  still  leap- 
ing out  to  his ;  and  Stephen's  heart  was  now  an  am- 
brosial arbour,  now  a  jungle  lair,  each  tenant  trans- 
forming it  to  its  taste. 

A  quick  resolve  seizes  him,  ally  to  the  absent  one ; 
and  he  turns  toward  his  father,  introducing  some 
topic  of  neutral  interest.  The  conversation  glides 
pleasantly  along,  the  girl  having  no  share  in  it ;  but 
the  old  man  feels  that  something,  he  knows  not 
what,  but  in  which  he  had  no  part,  has  passed  away ; 
and  he  gives  himself  up  to  the  exercise  he  loves  so 
well. 

Not  more  than  a  few  minutes  have  been  so 
employed  when  Bessie  rises,  beginning  to  adjust  her 
cloak. 

"  What's  the  maitter,  Bessie  ?     Ye're  no'  gaein'  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  answered  in  a  husky  voice ;  "  I 
must  attend  to  one  or  two  things  at  home — and  I'll 
have  to  go — I  can  find  my  way  alone,"  she  added, 
her  eyes  making  their  way  again  to  Stephen's  face. 

The  father  remonstrated  :  "  Reuben  '11  be  disap- 
pointed— he'll  no'  be  lang,  Bessie  " — but  in  vain  ;  a 
quick  word  of  farewell,  and  Bessie  was  gone,  the  door 
left  open  behind  her  as  the  dark  robed  figure  vanished 
in  the  night. 

A  moment — and  Stephen's  heart  has  resolved 
again.  He  knew  the  motive  that  prompted  her  im- 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    255 

pulsive  action — and  he  had  resolved  to  remain  with 
his  father.  But  the  vision  of  the  dark  way  gleamed 
before  him ;  he  persuades  himself  that  the  road  is  too 
lonely  for  her  to  go  unattended — he  wouldn't  have 
had  Hattie  go  this  way  alone. 

No,  it  is  not  right  that  she  should  go  alone — this  is 
Stephen's  final  warrant,  holding  fast  to  which  he 
flings  a  word  of  hasty  explanation  to  his  father  and 
hurries  out  exultant  into  the  dark. 

He  will  have  to  make  haste,  he  fancies,  if  he  would 
overtake  her — for  her  step  is  fleet.  But  pressing  on, 
he  has  not  got  farther  than  the  stile  that  leads  from 
the  field  to  the  familiar  wood  when  he  sees  the  move- 
ment of  a  dress,  not  easily  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  surrounding  gloom. 

He  is  beside  her  in  a  moment. 

"  I  knew  you'd  come,  Steve — I  was  waiting  for 
you,"  she  said  gently  as  she  rose  from  the  step  on 
which  she  had  been  sitting  ;  "  help  me  down,  Steve — 
it's  dark." 

Dark  indeed  it  was  as  Stephen  sprung  to  the  other 
side  of  the  fence,  turning  to  see  the  hand  outstretched 
to  him. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  soft  and  trustful  as  it 
rested  there,  the  girl  standing  on  the  second  step 
nearest  to  himself. 

"  Help  me  down,  Stephen,"  she  murmured, "  it's  so 
dark  ;  "  whereat  he  reached  forth  his  arms,  his  hands 
supporting  her  elbows,  hers  groping  their  way  to  his 
shoulders. 

The  old  thirst  came  back,  as  the  traveller's  thirst  is 


256  THE    UNDERTOW 

started  by  the  deadly  winds  of  the  desert.  But  his 
promise  to  another — and  to  God— called  loudly  to  him 
to  endure. 

He  helped  her  gently  to  the  ground,  as  gently 
withdrawing  his  hands  and  turning  from  the  wood. 

"  Let  us  go  round,"  he  said ;  "  it's  too  dark  to  go 
through." 

"  You've  forgotten  the  path,"  she  faltered ;  "  I 
know  it  yet."  Nevertheless  she  turned  with  him,  and 
they  made  their  way  along  the  edge  of  the  bush, 
silent  as  they  went.  Once  he  took  her  hand,  to  help 
her  over  a  murmuring  stream  that  coaxed  the  cling- 
ing grasses  to  let  it  go  its  way — but  he  released  it  in 
a  moment. 

Involuntarily  he  quickens  his  pace,  though  he 
knows  not  why  ;  a  broken  prayer  for  strength  mingles 
with  a  blurred  vision  of  the  memory  he  prays  may 
be  forgiven — but  the  vision  outlives  the  prayer. 

He  hurries  on — they  will  soon  be  past.  And  he 
who  has  no  wax  to  dullen  inward  ears  to  the  siren's 
voice  must  outrun  death  himself. 

"  Stephen,  don't  hurry  so — I'm  tired." 

"  What,  Bessie  ?  " 

"  Don't  go  so  fast,  Stephen.  I'm  tired — I  want  to 
rest — let  us  sit  down  a  minute. 

"  Here — let  us  sit  down  here ;  "  and  they  took  their 
places  on  the  little  pile  of  wood,  still  undisturbed  since 
last  they  had  rested  there.  And  the  wild  free  breath 
of  the  forest  bade  them  welcome  as  before. 

Suddenly  she  moved,  Stephen  trembling  as  he  felt 
her  coming  nearer.  "  Oh,  Steve,"  she  murmured, 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    257 

"  I've  been  here  often  since — often  in  the  darkness. 
I'm  all  alone  " — and  she  pressed  nearer,  following  the 
direction  of  the  heart  whose  tumult  could  be  felt. 
"Oh,  Steve " 

The  vision  of  Hattie — and  the  holiness  of  another 
hour — swam  far  away,  retreating  and  indistinct,  cry- 
ing out  that  it  had  never  been. 

He  hears  the  roar  of  the  soul-destroying  cataract 
toward  which  these  silent  waters  are  swiftly  bearing 
him ;  and  his  heart,  seized  by  a  mighty  impulse,  turns 
desperately  toward  the  shore.  It  may  have  been  the 
withered  prayers  with  which  his  life's  pathway  had 
been  strewn ;  or  it  may  have  been  the  ministry  of 
mouldering  lips  that  lay  silent  on  the  adjoining  hill ; 
or  it  may  have  been  the  sheer  pity  of  his  father's  God 
— but  he  gained  the  shore,  the  sullen  voice  of  the  tor- 
rent dying  in  the  distance. 

"  Go,  go,  Bessie,"  he  whispered  hoarsely ;  "  and 
God  pity  and  help  us  both — go — I'm  going  home," 
and  he  turned  in  the  direction  farthest  from  the  tor- 
rent's roar,  nor  looked  ever  back.  Onward,  he 
pressed — swiftly  homeward — a  great  belief  in  God 
surging  in  his  souL 


XX 

HIRAM'S  PRIEST 

WHAT  the  outcome  of  his  silence  on  the 
subject  of  his  secret  marriage  might  yet 
prove  to  be,  Stephen  Wishart  could  not 
well  surmise. 

It  was  the  morning  after  his  ordination  to  the  care 
of  the  Church  of  the  Covenant,  and  the  varied  scenes 
of  the  great  occasion  were  flitting  before  his  mind  as 
he  sat  in  the  comfortably  furnished  room,  one  of  a 
suite  that  were  now  to  be  his  home. 

One  scene  there  was  to  which  his  mind  reverted 
more  often,  and  more  gloomily,  than  to  any  other. 
It  had  had  its  place  at  the  social  gathering  of  the  con- 
gregation, convened  to  bid  him  welcome,  after  the 
solemn  ceremony  that  preceded  it  had  found  its  close. 

There  were,  of  course,  varied  speeches  by  varied 
speakers.  And  the  inevitably  facetious  man  had 
been  in  evidence,  a  brother  minister  from  an  outlying 
town. 

"  And  now,"  this  facetious  one  had  said,  "  I  want 
to  ask  you  all,  my  friends,  to  be  in  your  pews  here 
every  Sabbath  day.  I  know  of  nothing  so  discour- 
aging as  to  look  down  from  the  pulpit  into  a  lot  of 
vacant  faces — that  is,  I  mean,"  he  amended,  "  as  to 
look  down  and  see  a  lot  of  absent  faces  that  are  not 
there." 

258 


HIRAM'S   PRIEST  259 

This  poor  repair  produced  a  fresh  stream  of  mirth, 
and  the  good  man,  cheered  therewith,  went  cheerily 
on  his  way  :  "  And  there's  another  thing  I  want  to 
say.  By  and  by  your  minister  will  find  it  isn't  good 
for  man  to  be  alone — and  he'll  be  looking  around  for 
a  helpmeet,  making  a  choice  among  these  beautiful 
faces  that  I  see  in  the  choir  and  in  the  congregation 
before  me.  And  when  he  makes  his  choice,  and 
you're  going  to  have  a  minister's  wife.  .  .  ." 

Thus  ran  his  speech,  and  Stephen  sat  through 
it  all — and  after — and  in  silence,  his  burning  face  in- 
terpreted by  his  people  as  a  pledge  of  youthful 
modesty. 

Ah  me!  the  peril  of  the  unspoken  word.  For 
speech  itself  is  easier  of  recall,  and  poor  awkward 
hands  may  repair  it  not  so  ill.  But  silence  ebbs  with 
an  eternal  speed,  and  no  human  tongue  is  fleet 
enough  to  overtake  the  fugitive. 

To  the  dear  ones  of  his  father's  house,  Stephen 
had  never  written  the  tidings  of  his  marriage — he  had 
purposed  the  rather  to  tell  them  when  he  saw  them 
face  to  face.  Face  to  face  at  length,  he  resolved  to 
wait  till  Bessie  should  be  absent.  Bessie  in  due  time 
gone,  he  had  awaited  a  more  convenient  season,  till 
the  very  barrier  existed  that  now  confronted  him  in 
relation  to  his  church. 

For  he  had  been  silent  after  the  facetious  man  had 
made  an  end,  resolving  swiftly  that  not  to  this  public 
crowd,  but  to  the  officers  of  his  church,  would  he 
make  the  first  avowal.  But  this  is  the  grim  thought 
that  reflection  brings  him  :  how  will  he  explain  to 


260  'THE   UNDERTOW 

those  same  officers  the  silence  that  his  later  avowal 
is  to  break,  the  silence  that  should  have  never  been 
necessary  from  the  first  ? 

He  can  see  no  alternative  but — more  silence ;  for 
a  time,  at  least. 

His  perplexed  and  perplexing  thought  was  sud- 
denly interrupted  by  the  intimation  of  a  visitor,  and 
the  name  was  about  as  little  welcome  as  any  Stephen 
could  have  heard. 

For  his  caller  was  none  other  than  Mr.  Hiram 
Barker ;  whom  Stephen  met  at  the  door,  greeting 
him  with  all  the  cordiality  and  unconcern  he  could 
command. 

"  Why,  Hiram,  is  this  you — and  looking  so  well. 
It's  a  long  time  since  I  had  a  sight  of  you,  isn't  it  ? 
Although  I  had  an  idea  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  you 
last  night." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  was  there  last  night,  Mr.  Wishart — 
never  do  to  call  you  Steve,  now  that  you're  the  min- 
ister of  the  Covenant  Church.  I  was  there,  all  right ; 
wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  anything.  Of  course,  I 
suppose  you  know  I've  changed  my  religion.  I've 
flitted,  so  to  speak — wasn't  much  of  a  contract — did 
it  all  with  a  wheelbarrow,"  and  Hiram  Barker's  hand- 
some face  ^was  wreathed  in  gracious  smiles.  "  But 
I'm  not  above  going  to  a  Protestant  meeting — I'm  no 
bigot,  you  know.  I'm  like  you  in  this,  Mr.  Wishart, 
that  I  don't  believe  in  taking  religion  too  seriously. 
Good  servant,  but  a  poor  master,  eh  ?  " 

Stephen  winced  under  the  man's  suggestive  words. 
"  I'm  glad  you  were  there,  Hiram — it  was  good  of 


HIRAM'S   PRIEST  261 

you  to  come.  Yes,  I  did  hear  you  had  joined  the 
Catholic  Church  ;  but  if  a  man's  sincere — if  a  man's 
sincere,  I  say — it  doesn't  matter  much  to  what  church 
he  belongs.  I  hope  you  enjoyed  the  service  last 
night." 

"  Oh,  immensely,"  Hiram  answered  blithely.  "  I 
never  saw  a  man  set  apart  to  the  service  of  God  be- 
fore— it  was  wonderfully  solemn" — he  continued  in 
graver  tone ;  "  but  that  was  a  knock-out  question 
they  put  to  you,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Which  one  ?  "  Stephen  asked  ;  "  there  were  so 
many." 

"  That  there  were  ;  most  of  them  were  run  off  like 
an  examination  for  insurance.  But  there  was  one 
rum  one — about  a  fellow's  motive  in  entering  the 
ministry — '  love  of  souls,  and  zeal  for  the  glory  of 
God  ' — something  like  that,  they  asked,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  responded,  "  it  certainly  is  a  very 
searching  question  and " 

"  But  it  did  me  good  to  hear  you  answer  it.  You 
see,  I  wasn't  sure  before ;  it  was  lovely  to  have  it 
from  your  own  lips — especially  when  you  were  being 
settled  over  such  a  gilt-edged  congregation.  It's  the 
silk-hattest  and  kid-glovest  congregation  in  the  city 
— and  you'll  see  more  of  them  in  the  boxes  at  the 
horse  show  than  all  the  other  churches  put  together. 
The  salary  they  pay  would  make  most  men  have  any 
quantity  of  zeal  for  the  glory  of  God,"  he  concluded, 
the  bland  smile  upon  his  face  again. 

"  What's  your  minister's  name  ?  "  Stephen  asked 
abruptly — "  your  priest's,  I  should  say  ?  " 


262  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Oh,  I  go  to  Saint  Anne's — O'Rourke's  his  name, 
Father  O'Rourke — and  he's  a  jewel,  a  perfect  jewel 
— lots  of  love  for  souls  and  zeal  for  glory — lots  of  it. 
He's  a  damned  good  Christian — excuse  me,  that's 
mixing  terms — but  he's  good  as  gold ;  and  the  best 
preacher  in  Hamilton,  bar  none." 

"  I'd  like  to  hear  him,"  Stephen  said,  moving  in 
his  seat. 

"  You  just  ought  to  hear  him — he  often  preaches 
Friday  nights  and  you  could  go  then.  He'd  be  the 
very  man  for  you ;  he's  great  on  the  past — always 
dusting  up  the  past ;  that's  his  specialty — and  you 
ought  to  have  a  treatment."  Hiram's  eyes  were 
giving  forth  a  glint  that  tortured  Stephen. 

"  Look  here,  Hiram,"  he  began  in  a  shaking  voice, 
"  what's  the  use  of  this  ?  Is  that  what  you  came  to 
see  me  about?  Isn't  it  about  time  we  gave  this 
over  ?  I've  nothing  against  you,  Hiram." 

The  latter  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  it  was 
difficult  to  say  whether  more  of  cruelty  or  of  pity 
was  in  the  glance.  But  the  keenest  eye  could  not 
have  read  his  heart  as  he  suddenly  laid  his  hand  on 
Stephen's  shoulder,  his  voice  so  changed  from  a  mo- 
ment before. 

"  All  right,  Steve,  I  won't  plague  you — I  won't. 
You've  got  enough  ;  and  I  wouldn't  add  a  straw,  after 
I  heard  those  vows  of  yours  last  night — not  a  straw ; 
you've  got  enough.  I'd  rather  help  you  play  the 
game — blind  man's  buff,  isn't  it,  eh?  If  I  can  help 
you  keep  them  from  pulling  the  thing  off,  I'll  do  it. 
What's  more,  I'll  tell  you  what  brought  me  here 


HIRAM'S   PRIEST  263 

to-day.  I  came  to  do  you  a  good  turn — I  did, 
honest." 

Stephen's  face  turned  toward  the  man  beside  him. 

"  Thank  you,  Hiram,  I  knew  your  heart  was  right. 
I  knew  you  wished  me  well — what  was  it  you  were 
going  to  do  for  me  ?  I  know  you  can  be  a  great 
help  to  me." 

Hiram  smiled.  "  Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  he  began, 
"  it's  a  good  thing  to  have  two  strings  to  your  bow. 
Isn't  there  something  like  that  in  the  Scriptures, 
something  about  mammon  and  everlasting  habita- 
tions ?  Our  church  isn't  much  on  the  Bible,  you 
know.  Well,  I'm  speaking  plain.  You've  got  a 
cursed  rich  congregation  here ;  and  if  you're  going 
to  keep  pace  with  them,  you've  got  to  have  the 
wherewithal.  Anyhow,  you  might  find  it  handy 
some  day — you  can  never  tell  what  might  happen. 
Do  you  see  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  exactly,"  Stephen  said  slowly ;  "  do  you 
mean  money  ?  " 

"  Precisely,  Mr.  Wishart — the  very  thing.  I 
wouldn't  have  thought,  after  last  night,  you  would 
have  thought  of  it  so  quick.  But  you're  quite  right 
— you  can't  cash  those  love  and  glory  things  at  the 
bank,  can  you  ?  Well,  I  can  put  you  next,  as  the 
saying  is.  I  know  some  stocks  that  are  going  up 
twenty  to  forty  points  inside  a  month  ;  and  you  might 
just  as  well  have  a  slice  of  a  good  thing  when  it's 
going.  It  doesn't  take  much  to  buy  on  margin. 
See  now,  Steve  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,"  Stephen  answered  quickly,  "  and  I 


264  THE    UNDERTOW 

certainly  appreciate  your  kindness.  But  I  wonder  if 
it's  right — becoming  a  minister,  you  know.  Wouldn't 
the  people  be  likely  to  hear  about  it  ?  And  anyhow, 
I  haven't  got  the  money — you  know  what  I  got  from 
father ;  and  of  course  it's  all  gone." 

"  Don't  bother  about  that — I'll  lend  you  the  money. 
You  know  the  Bible  says  you're  not  to  take  to  the 
woods  when  a  fellow  wants  a  loan ;  the  modern  ver- 
sion is  for  the  fellow  that  borrowed  it  to  turn  away 
when  you  want  it  back.  But  I'll  trust  you,  Steve — 
you  can  have  any  quantity,  after  those  vows  last 
night;  love  and  zeal  ought  to  make  good  collateral, 
I  should  say.  And  you  may  as  well  make  a  little ; 
you'll  be  getting  married  some  of  these  days  and  then 
you'll  need  it." 

Stephen  felt  the  hot  blood  bathing  his  face,  for  the 
unhappy  secret  was  already  beginning  to  fester  in  his 
heart. 

"  All  right,  Hiram ;  thank  you  more  than  I  can 
tell  you.  I'll  think  about  it — and  I  think  I'll  proba- 
bly accept  your  offer.  A  fellow  can  do  a  lot  of  good 
with  money.  I'll  let  you  know  to-morrow." 

"  Very  good,  I'll  drop  round  and  see  you  to-mor- 
row evening.  I'm  glad  we  understand  each  other 
better — the  past  isn't  easily  forgotten,  is  it  ?  "  the  old 
expression  on  his  countenance  as  he  held  out  his 
hand.  "  And  oh,  before  I  forget,  Father  O'Rourke 
told  me  to  tell  you  he  wants  to  call  on  you ;  he  said 
he'd  come  on  Saturday  night  if  it's  convenient  for 
you.  You'll  find  him  a  jewel,  as  I  said  ;  and  I  make 
the  prediction  that  you  and  he  will  be  great  cronies 


HIRAM'S   PRIEST  265 

— you  see  if  I'm  not  right.     Good-bye  till  to-mor- 
row." 

"  Good-night,  Hiram.  I'll  be  glad  to  see  the  father 
— Saturday  night  will  suit  all  right.  Good-night,  and 
thank  you  again." 

When  Saturday  evening  came,  Stephen  was  seated 
in  his  study,  glad  to  escape  from  the  fellow-boarders 
who  seemed  desirous  of  closer  acquaintance  with  so 
conspicuous  a  figure  in  the  city's  life. 

It  was  still  early ;  and  he  turned  toward  the  care- 
fully written  sermon  before  him,  already  well  re- 
hearsed, whose  delivery  on  the  morrow  was  to  mark 
the  beginning  of  his  ministry  in  the  Church  of  the 
Covenant. 

But  he  had  hardly  taken  it  in  his  hand  when  an 
obsequious  voice  without  announced  the  advent  of 
the  expected  visitor,  and  in  a  moment  Stephen  was 
at  the  door,  his  hand  outstretched  in  welcome. 

"  Is  this  Father  O'Rourke  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
speaking  to  ?  Come  away  in — I  was  looking  for  you." 

"  That's  who  I  be ;  and  I'm  glad  to  mate  you,  Mr. 
Wishart,"  replied  a  rich  Irish  voice. 

The  face  of  his  new  acquaintance  was  full  of  gen- 
uine humanity,  lit  up  with  an  almost  boyish  smile, 
while  the  seriousness  of  deep  spiritual  life  looked  out 
from  the  hazel  eyes. 

The  marks  of  strife  were  there,  secret  and  long 
continued  conflict  against  those  principalities  and 
powers  which  unsheath  their  keenest  swords  for 
worthy  foemen,  and  for  them  alone. 


266  THE    UNDERTOW 

And  upon  his  splendid  brow  the  chastened  banner 
of  the  victorious  was  visible  to  all  who  have  learned 
the  secret  standards  of  that  holy  war.  The  sym- 
pathy that  shone  from  his  tender  eyes  betokened  him 
a  conqueror ;  for  they  who  have  struggled  and  pre- 
vailed will  draw  their  swords  the  quickest  for  the  van- 
quished, and  the  nail-thrust  hand  that  has  endured 
is  ever  laid  the  tenderest  upon  the  sin-wounds  of  the 
weak. 

As  Stephen  looked  upon  him,  as  he  heard  his  voice, 
he  felt  that  he  might  well  deserve  the  place  Hiram 
had  accorded  him  as  the  first  preacher  of  his  city. 
For  his  whole  bearing  attested  him  a  faithful  servant 
of  the  Church  whose  narrowness  and  ecclesiasticism 
the  largeness  of  his  nature  had  outgrown.  His  first 
indenture  was  to  God. 

And  his  voice  was  the  voice  of  eloquence,  with  all 
of  love  and  sympathy  and  insight  and  power  that  the 
great  word  implies.  A  strong  Irish  brogue  marked 
his  speech  when  it  voiced  its  lighter  moods ;  but,  in 
the  glow  of  sermon  and  appeal,  the  whole  city  had 
remarked  the  rich  culture  of  his  accent,  his  words 
retaining  only  the  delicious  suggestion  of  his  native 
land. 

Stephen  led  Father  O'Rourke  to  a  chair,  and  the 
tw<  >  clergymen  were  soon  engrossed  in  a  conversation 
that  bade  fair  for  the  future  intimacy  of  which  Hiram 
felt  so  sure.  The  far  different  Churches — and  their 
historic  antagonism — to  which  they  respectively  be- 
longed, seemed  quite  forgotten  in  the  mutual  pleas- 
ure that  their  new-born  acquaintance  had  provided. 


HIRAM'S   PRIEST  267 

The  latest  phases  of  religious  thought ;  the  drift  of 
political  opinion  at  home  and  across  the  sea;  the 
charm  and  prophecy  of  the  opening  life  in  their  own 
new  and  wonderful  land — amid  such  themes  as  these 
their  talk  flowed  on,  each  more  and  more  convinced 
that  he  had  found  in  the  other  a  congenial  friend. 

"  I  must  be  going,"  the  priest  said  at  length,  "  I've 
got  to  see  a  man  that's  dying." 

"  Well,"  Stephen  rejoined,  "  I  reckon  I'd  better  get 
to  work  myself.  I'm  just  getting  in  some  final  strokes 
on  my  sermon  for  to-morrow." 

The  priest  glanced  at  the  manuscript  upon  the  desk. 

"  I  find  a  visit  to  the  dying  a  fine  preparation  for  a 
sermon,"  he  said.  "  It  gives  it  the  human  touch ; 
there's  nothing  in  a  sermon  so  fine  as  a  face — a  face 
looking  out  at  the  audience.  I  hope  you'll  have  a 
fine  time  to-morrow." 

"  Thank  you,"  Stephen  answered,  "  I'm  just  a  little 
nervous  over  it  myself." 

"  Och,  the  mischief,"  the  priest  returned,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  ;  "  niver  a  bit  ye  nade  to  be. 
You've  got  a  swell  lot  o'  people  there — but  they're 
only  Jerusalem  sinners  like  the  rest  of  us.  Wrap 
the  owld  flag  round  ye,  my  boy,  and  give  it  to  them 
straight.  But  a  lot  depinds  on  your  first  sermon. 
Don't  try  to  grip  them  by  the  brains — they're  toired  o' 
that.  And  don't  catch  them  by  the  poetry  part  o' 
them — and  don't  deafen  them  wid  noise.  I'm  older 
than  you ;  and  I  tell  you,  catch  them  by  the  heart. 
Every  minister  of  God  should  be  a  specialist ;  and 
his  specialty  should  be  the  heart,  always  the  heart," 


268  THE    UNDERTOW 

he  concluded,  smiling  at  Stephen  in  a  fatherly  sort 
of  way. 

"  Thank  you ;  I'll  try  it.  I  believe  you're  right. 
You're  a  priest  of  the  Church  of  Rome  and  I'm  a 
minister  of  the  Church  of  Scotland — but  I  shall  look 
for  your  help  and  advice,  Father  O'Rourke.  I  feel 
that  you  have  helped  me  already." 

"  That's  all  roight — I  know  we'll  be  frinds,  foine 
frinds,"  the  priest  responded  heartily ;  "  there's  not 
such  a  gulf  between  us  after  all.  A  priest's  a  min- 
ister; and  a  minister's  a  priest — and  they're  both 
poor  sinful  cratures.  One  word — stick  to  the  Cross, 
my  son.  Hold  you  to  the  Cross.  Let  the  modern 
thought  go  to  the  divil  if  it  stroikes  at  that.  And  I 
hope  ye'll  be  moighty  happy  here,"  he  went  on. 
"  Don't  be  long  wid  yere  love-makin' ;  get  a  wife  to 
yourself — that's  an  owld  priest's  advice  to  ye.  Every- 
thing depinds  on  the  kind  you  get.  Why,  yere 
people  are  jabberin'  away  about  it  already.  They've 
got  it  all  fixed.  She's  got  to  be  refoined,  and  intilli- 
gint,  and  blue-blooded  to  the  quane's  taste — and  illi- 
gant  for  society  purposes,  togged  up  to  knock  the 
spots  aff  anything  in  the  city.  That's  their  oidea. 
But  you  tell  them  to  go  to  Old  Harry.  Get  ye  the 
kind  ye  want — get  a  specialist,  a  heart-specialist, 
mind  ye." 

He  stopped,  embarrassed ;  for  all  of  Stephen's  self 
control — and  all  his  rehearsal  of  deception,  practised 
at  his  father's  house  since  his  return — were  unavailing 
against  the  torrent  of  confusion  and  dismay  that 
poured  itself  into  his  face. 


HIRAM'S  PRIEST  269 

For  when  he  had  slipped  into  the  awful  policy  of 
silence,  he  had  not  allowed  for  the  trembling  sense  of 
danger  ;  for  the  bitter  upbraiding  of  a  heart  that  still, 
with  all  its  ebb  and  flow,  clung  to  his  wife  with  a 
love  that  tortured ;  for  the  sickening  sensation  of 
a  double  life,  knowing  that  life  a  lie.  And  as  he 
listened  to  the  priest's  jaunty  words,  all  of  these  smote 
his  heart  in  unison. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Wishart,  excuse  me  please," 
Father  O'Rourke  began  apologetically.  "  It's  not 
for  me  to  give  advoice  about  the  tinder  passion.  I 
moight  have  known  you  have  it  all  settled  by  this 
toime.  And  what  roight  has  an  owld  stag  loike  me 
to  be  pratin'  about  such  matters  ?  I  was  niver  in 
love  myself  but  wanst — wanst  at  a  toime,  that  is. 
I  was  only  chaffin'  ye — don't  think  anny  more 
about  it." 

Stephen's  composure  was  soon  regained.  "  I  don't 
doubt  you're  well  up  in  the  theory,  Father  O'Rourke, 
even  if  you  haven't  had  the  practice,"  he  said,  walk- 
ing with  him  to  the  door  and  bidding  him  good-night 
with  cordial  warmth. 

When  his  visitor  was  gone,  Stephen  returned  to 
his  study,  his  heart  hot  with  its  fiery  tumult,  but  his 
face  blanched  and  pale. 

He  sat  long,  holding  his  head  in  his  hands,  the 
shadows,  unheeded  all,  closing  in  about  him ;  darker 
shadows  seemed  groping  with  cruel  hands  about  his 
unhappy  heart.  Where  now,  he  thought  to  himself, 
is  the  unpoisoned  happiness  which  so  short  a  time 
ago  he  felt  was  his  forever?  Where  now,  the  joy 


270  THE   UNDERTOW 

and  restfulness  of  love,  the  shelter  built  by  unseen 
hands  in  which  their  two  nestling  souls  were  to  find 
peace  at  last?  Was  there  to  be  no  end  to  this 
strange  tangle,  this  maddening  maze  of  things  ?  Was 
God  bent  on  baffling  him  at  every  turn  ? 

Suddenly,  obedient  to  an  inward  voice  that  seemed 
to  blend  with  the  invitation  of  the  dark,  he  slipped 
on  to  his  knees  and  began  to  pray.  But  his  flounder- 
ing soul  could  find  no  foothold  for  his  flight ;  the 
voice  of  unreality  seemed  to  mock  him  with  its  jeer- 
ing laugh — and  in  a  moment  he  arose. 

Then  he  called  for  a  light,  and  gave  himself  with 
desperate  earnestness  to  the  mastery  of  his  morning's 
sermon  from  the  text :  "  and  the  truth  shall  make 
you  free." 


XXI 

A    DOUBLE    LIFE 

THE  busy  months  have  passed,  and  Stephen 
Wishart,  minister  of  the  Church  of  the 
Covenant,  is  again  seated  amid  the  encir- 
cling gloom ;  again  he  holds  his  hands  to  his  head, 
crouching  among  the  shadows,  giving  himself  up  to 
the  sombre  thoughts  that  were  now  his  abiding  por- 
tion. To-morrow  is  to  see  him  started  on  the  most 
joyous  journey  of  his  life  ;  not  with  this,  however,  is 
his  thought  engrossed,  but  with  the  weary  way  that 
lies  behind.  Yes,  these  bygone  months  have  come 
wearily,  and  as  wearily  have  gone,  since  he  struck  the 
key-note  of  his  ministry  in  his  first  sermon  on  "  the 
emancipating  power  of  the  truth." 

For,  to  begin  with,  his  first  sermon  had  been  a  dis- 
appointment. As  an  evidence  of  his  great  gifts,  as  a 
pledge  of  his  commanding  eloquence,  it  had  won  the 
applause  of  all.  He  had  reaffirmed  his  reverent  faith 
in  the  Bible  as  the  living  word,  proclaimed  it  with 
the  same  eloquent  originality  as  had  marked  his 
Hyde  Park  oration — this  general  view  he  em- 
phasized. But  he  had  seen  fit  to  further  elaborate 
his  theological  position,  and  to  acclaim  the  new  light 
that  was  banishing  the  extreme  conservatism  re- 
garding the  Scriptures.  He  had  paid  a  generous 

271 


272  THE    UNDERTOW 

tribute  to  the  fruitfulness  of  criticism,  in  begetting  a 
spirit  of  challenge  and  research,  and  had  repeated 
twice  that  "  there  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds." 

This  opening  sermon  had  been  published  in  one  of 
the  city  papers  under  the  headline  of  "  The  New 
Theology  "  ;  but,  although  it  enhanced  his  fame  as 
an  orator,  it  had  brought  forth  little  to  encourage 
him. 

All  of  this  had  brought  him  little  comfort.  There 
came  a  letter,  too — from  his  father.  It  told  of  the 
continued  lucrativeness  of  the  oil  wells ;  of  the 
further  adjournment  of  Reuben's  wedding;  of  the 
prosperity  of  their  church  under  Mr.  Shearer ;  then 
there  was  a  postscript  which  read : 

"  I  saw  a  screed  i'  the  paper  aboot  yir  openin'  ser- 
mon. Yon  was  a  grand  text  ye  had." 

Many  others,  too,  of  the  humble  folk  around  Ste- 
phen's early  home  had  read  eagerly  the  report  of  his 
first  discourse.  And  the  next  Sabbath  day  it  was 
gravely  discussed  by  a  group  of  farmers  about  the 
door  of  their  little  church. 

"  I'm  no'  surprised,"  said  one  gray -bearded  man, 
"  at  the  kind  o'  stuff  he  gave  them.  He  stole  twa  o' 
my  watermelons  when  he  was  a  laddie — and  I  wasna 
gaein'  to  say  onything  aboot  it,  till  I  saw  yon  screed 
i'  the  papers." 

"  Noo  that  ye  speak  o't,"  contributed  another, 
"  yin  nicht  I  was  walkin'  hame  i'  the  dark — and  he 
fired  a  pistol  frae  behind  a  fence — and  the  shot 
banged  aboot  my  lugs.  I  wasna  gaein'  to  tell  either. 


A    DOUBLE  LIFE  273 

He  throwed  the  shot  wi'  his  hand,  I  found  oot  lang 
syne — and  I  ran  like  a  deer.  Sae  I  wasna  surprised 
at  yon  bit  i'  the  papers." 

"  I  dinna  think  naethin'  aboot  yir  melons,  or  yir 
rinnin',"  said  a  kindly  elder  of  the  kirk  ;  "  a  laddie's 
aye  a  laddie.  But  yon  new  view  aboot  the  auld 
theology — I  canna  forgie  him  that.  What  say  ye, 
Donald  ?  "  He  turned  to  a  sweet-faced  listener,  the 
minister's  right-hand  man. 

Donald  was  silent  for  a  moment,  smiling  sadly, 
with  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"  Puir  laddie,  muckle  he  kens  aboot  it."  And  the 
others  said  no  more. 

Nor  was  this  his  only  disappointment.  He  was 
disappointed,  bitterly  so,  in  the  people  he  had  been 
called  to  serve. 

Proud,  ambitious,  frivolous  for  the  most  part,  their 
estimate  of  his  worth  had  laid  its  strongest  emphasis 
upon  various  social  functions  which  he  was  supposed 
to  assist  and  adorn,  but  which  his  soul  had  learned  to 
loathe.  Once  he  had  been  urged  to  tarry  at  a  dinner 
party,  summoned  from  its  revel  though  he  was  to  the 
bedside  of  a  dying  child.  "  They  do  not  belong  to 
our  church,"  he  had  been  reassured ;  "  and,  besides, 
nine  chances  to  one  it's  some  contagious  disease ;  you 
must  think  of  others,  you  know."  But  he  had  scorned 
their  counsel ;  for,  after  all,  he  was  Robert  Wishart's 
child. 

More  than  this,  a  spirit  of  restlessness  was 
astir;  he  knew  it;  he  could  feel  it.  Besides,  there 


274  THE    UNDERTOW 

was  good  reason  for  it,  poor  Stephen  reflected  to  him- 
self, sitting  with  his  burning  cheeks  still  resting  on 
his  hands. 

For  to-morrow  he  was  to  set  forth  for  New  York — 
to  meet  his  wife.  Her  steamer  was  due  to  land  the 
following  day.  And  then — what  then  ? 

Not  that  his  own  love  had  lessened.  Rather  it  had 
deepened ;  fanned  by  loneliness  and  longing,  it  had 
broken  into  brighter  flame.  Her  patience,  her  un- 
selfishness, her  heroic  endurance  of  the  long  separa- 
tion he  had  declared  as  wise  and  necessary,  her  sweet 
and  tender  letters,  aglow  with  love  for  him  and  with 
eager  enquiries  for  the  progress  of  his  noble  work ; 
her  pathetic  prophecies  of  the  happiness  and  useful- 
ness that  he  and  she  were  to  know  together  in  their 
toil  for  souls — these  had  clothed  her  in  spotless  white 
before  his  reverent  gaze  and  had  kept  alive  the  pure 
passion  of  his  love. 

But  he  would  never  forget  the  awkwardness — the 
agony  indeed — of  the  dreary  time  that  had  elapsed 
since  he  and  his  secret  had  first  entered  the  pulpit 
which  was  his  own  at  last.  Many  had  lightly  advised 
him  of  his  need  of  a  helpmeet,  unconscious  of 
the  poison  that  the  gayest  shaft  may  bear.  Others 
had  whispered  to  him  that  suspicion  and  mistrust  and 
jealousy  would  surely  arise  sooner  or  later  among 
the  eligibles  of  his  flock.  And  at  last,  wrung  by  the 
distracting  situation,  he  had  thought  it  wise  to  tell  a 
few,  who  in  turn  thought  it  wise  to  tell  the  world, 
that  he  was  linked  to  a  heart  across  the  sea. 

Whereupon  the  Church  of  the  Covenant  had  seized 


A    DOUBLE   LIFE  275 

its  inlaid  fan  in  a  flutter  of  excitement  it  had  never 
known  before.  Particulars  were  not  forthcoming ; 
details  were  denied  their  thirsty  souls — and  the  con- 
gregational fan  flew  fast  and  furious.  Five  o'clocks 
— and  even  hospitality — grew  apace,  these  hurried 
councils  necessary  to  the  crisis. 

The  past  was  ransacked,  the  future  foreboded,  with 
desperate  earnestness.  Matrons,  mathematically  and 
matrimonially  inclined,  disclosed  to  mutual  hearts  the 
ghastly  number  of  his  entertainments  at  their  homes, 
the  dark  lightning  of  expense  illumining  the  estimate. 
Then  they  bewailed  his  faithlessness,  entering  into 
solemn  compact  to  risk  no  more  the  daughters  of 
their  bosoms,  which  daughters  were  fervidly  con- 
gratulated upon  the  felicity  of  their  escape ;  and  the 
escaped  responded  with  only  moderate  enthusiasm. 

Debt  added  to  his  misery.  He  had  accepted 
Hiram's  offer  of  a  loan  and  invested  its  proceeds  in 
stocks  that  were  so  sure  to  rise.  Hiram  held  his 
note,  acting  as  his  broker.  And  the  stock  had 
risen,  then  halted,  then  steadily  declined.  Stephen 
had  continued  to  cover — for  his  investment  was  on 
margin.  This  necessitated  further  loans  from  the 
original  source  till  he  was  deep  in  Hiram's  debt. 
The  latter  had  eventually  taken  the  stock  off  his 
hands,  buying  at  a  fatal  figure,  after  which  it  began 
mysteriously  to  ascend.  But  the  mischief  had  been 
done ;  the  original  and  the  accumulated  debt  was 
still  to  be  paid. 

To  make  matters  worse,  Hiram  had  begun  to  throw 


276  THE    UNDERTOW 

out  little  hints  as  to  the  pleasure  a  settlement  would 
afford  him.  He  had  gone  so  far  as  to  say,  even 
though  he  laughed  as  he  said  it,  that  love  for  souls 
and  zeal  for  the  glory  of  God  were  no  doubt  good  in 
their  way,  but  that  the  kind  of  religion  which  paid 
ordinary  business  debts  was  good  enough  for  him. 

Of  course,  he  had  added,  one  would  see  things 
differently  if  he  had  been  called  to  the  ministry  of 
the  Word ;  three  day  grace  was  a  poor  affair  com- 
pared to  the  large  kind  Stephen  had  to  preach,  he 
knew! 

But  chief  of  all  his  torments  was  the  secret  gnaw- 
ing of  a  conscience  that  was  neither  dead  nor  sleep- 
ing. The  truth  is,  he  was  striving  desperately  to 
serve  his  God,  unhallowed  though  the  altar  to  which 
he  clung.  In  that  service  he  had  moments  of  peace, 
even  of  fleeting  joy.  Swift  gleams  of  sunshine  fell 
now  and  then  upon  the  stream  of  his  unhappy  life, 
when  it  would  emerge  from  its  swampy  way,  leaping 
in  the  new-found  light.  But  this  was  soon  forgotten 
in  the  dark  morass  into  which  it  swiftly  flowed  again, 
swallowed  up  of  conquering  shadows  that  lay  in  wait 
beyond. 

Wherefore  these  moments  of  transient  light — 
sometimes  in  his  pulpit;  sometimes  by  the  dying 
bed ;  sometimes  in  the  thrill  of  new  and  holy  reso- 
lutions— these  had  come  to  be  the  moments  of  his 
keenest  anguish.  For  he  knew  they  were  only  a 
soul's  reprieve.  And  the  waiting  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  held  them  in  utter  scorn. 


A    DOUBLE   LIFE  277 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  Stephen  ! " 

"  Hattie,  my  darling — my  wife,  my  Hattie — it's 
been  so  long ;  but  it's  all  over  now." 

The  sweet  fragrance  of  spring,  undenied  even  to 
the  great  metropolis,  is  drifting  in  through  the  open 
window  of  the  New  York  hotel  where  two  long- 
sundered  hearts  are  drinking  deep  of  the  old  well- 
spring  of  healing. 

"  I  stood  four  hours  on  the  pier,  Hattie — and  I 
saw  the  ship  before  any  of  the  others.  It  fairly 
seemed  to  creep  ;  but  a  man  with  a  glass  said  it  was 
the  Etruria — oh,  Hattie,  Hattie,  my  darling !  " 

"  Why,  Stephen,  that's  nothing  to  my  wait.  I 
stood  at  the  bow  since  early  morning — of  course  I 
went  down  to  dinner — but  I  just  thought  I  couldn't 
wait.  But  I'm  here — and  you're  here,  darling — and 
we'll  never,  never  be  parted  any  more,  will  we  ?  " 

His  answer  was  given  not  in  speech.  But  the  man 
who  held  her  so  tenderly  close  to  him  was  thanking 
heaven  for  the  love  that  he  knew  had  made  him  in- 
dependent of  the  world.  The  purity  of  the  face  he 
caressed  so  gently,  the  sweet  wholesomeness  of  the 
graceful  figure  that  lay  well  contented  in  his  arms, 
the  artless  speech  that  told  the  story  of  almost  fool- 
ish happiness — that  all  these  were  his,  and  all  this  for 
him,  filled  his  heart  with  a  calm  it  had  not  known  for 
long. 

For  the  fear  had  seized  him,  and  had  clung  to  him 
even  on  the  pier,  that  his  trial  might  come  in  this 
heart  hunger,  never  to  be  satisfied ;  in  a  burning  love 
that  was  to  torture  him  because  it  was  denied. 


278  THE    UNDERTOW 

But  it  was  not  to  be.  God  is  love ;  and  in  love  He 
glories ;  and  the  fields  of  the  evil  and  the  unthought- 
ful  share  His  impartial  rain.  And  she  is  his — she  is 
in  his  arms  ;  and  nothing  but  death  can  separate  them 
more. 

It  is  toward  evening  now,  and  a  peculiar  stillness 
has  wrapped  itself  about  them. 

"  Stephen,  why  don't  you  talk  to  me  ?  Take  me, 
my  husband,"  she  said,  the  pure  colour  that  had  en- 
chanted him  before  flowing  from  neck  to  brow  as  she 
stole  into  his  arms.  It  was  the  same  rich  tide  he  had 
first  seen  the  very  night  they  met.  "  Is  anything 
troubling  you,  darling  ?  Won't  you  tell  your  wife  ?  " 
she  pleaded. 

Stephen  waited  a  moment.  "  Yes,  Hattie,"  his 
voice  hoarse  and  unsteady,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing. Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  Scotch  marriage, 
Hattie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course — my  father  and  mother  were 
Scotch ;  and  they  got  married.  Of  course — there 
have  been  lots  of  Scotch  marriages." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  dear.  But  I  mean  the  ancient  Scot- 
tish ceremony — a  man  and  a  woman  taking  each  other 
as  husband  and  wife — just  themselves,  you  know." 

"  Not  before  a  minister? — And  not  before  any  wit- 
nesses ?  "  Hattie  asked  wonderingly. 

"  No — just  before  their  God.  That's  a  marriage, 
you  know,"  Stephen  answered,  his  eyes  aflame  as 
they  searched  Hattie's  face. 

"Is  it?     It's  a  funny  kind  of  a  marriage.     But  I 


A    DOUBLE   LIFE  279 

think  I  have  heard  of  it — and  I'm  glad  ours  wasn't 
that  kind,  aren't  you  ?  I've  got  our  marriage  lines  ; 
I  have  them  in  here,"  she  said,  touching  her  bosom 
with  her  hand,  the  wondrous  eyes  beaming  up  at  him 
in  trust  and  happiness. 

"  Yes,  darling,  of  course  I  am.  But  Hattie — here, 
let  me  whisper  it ;  I  want  us  to  have  that  kind  of  a 
marriage  now — just  us  two  before  our  God." 

The  girl  started,  trembling.  "  Stephen,  oh,  Stephen, 
tell  me  quick — what  do  you  mean  ?  Aren't  we  mar- 
ried, Stephen  ?  Aren't  you  my  husband — and  I  your 
wife  ?  Oh,  Stephen." 

He  drew  her  down  closer,  holding  the  fluttering 
form,  whispering  long.  The  scarlet  face  emerged  at 
last.  "  Is  that  the  reason,  Stephen  ?  Just  that  we 
can  tell  them  we  were  married  in  New  York — with- 
out telling  a  lie  ?  Oh,  Stephen,  you  said  you'd  tell 
them  we  were  married  as  soon  as  you  got  to  Hamil- 
ton. Why  didn't  you  ?  Oh,  why  didn't  you, 
Stephen  ?  I  didn't  make  any  secret  of  it  to  anybody." 

He  repeated  to  her  the  considerations  that  had 
prompted  his  silence,  Hattie  struggling  hard  to  see 
their  wisdom. 

"Yes,  I  think — I  think  I  understand,"  she  said 
slowly  at  length.  "  But  I  don't  see  why  they  should 
look  down  on  the  Army.  I  tried  to  be  a  good 
soldier ;  and  I'm  sure  that's  what  they'd  want  their 
minister's  wife  to  be.  Oh,  Stephen,  I'll  do  anything 
you  want — I'll  marry  you  over  again  that  way — that 
is,  if  you  think  it  best.  Oh,  Stephen,  Stephen,"  she 
cried,  her  arms  like  a  vise  about  his  neck,  the  hot 


28o  THE    UNDER'JOIV 

tears  flowing  fast,  "  let  us  get  some  other  place — some 
nice  congregation  in  the  country,  I  love  the  country 
so — with  green  fields  and  sweet  flowers  and  dear  kind 
people,  where  we  can  walk  and  drive — and  have  each 
other — and  live  so  near  to  God,"  she  sobbed  in  a 
burst  of  longing.  "  I  don't  want  to  go  and  live  with 
a  lot  of  rich  people.  They'll  want  you  all  to  them- 
selves. And  they'll — they'll  ask  me  where  I  met  you. 
And  it  doesn't  matter  where — it  doesn't  matter; 
you're  my  husband  and  I  love  you — and  it  was  God 
gave  you  to  me — wherever  I  met  you.  He  sent  you 
to  me,  my  darling.  But  they  wouldn't  understand. 
And  I  want  to  be  happy,  Stephen ;  oh,  I  do  want  to 
be  happy — for  it's  been  nearly  all  sorrow,  and  I 
thought  it  was  all  past  now." 

As  best  he  could,  he  petted  and  caressed  the  sob- 
bing girl,  his  lips  straying  among  the  golden  strands 
or  pressed  to  the  quivering  lips,  his  whole  soul  brood- 
ing over  her  in  compassionate  devotion. 

Then  he  gently  untwined  her  arms,  groping  rever- 
ently for  the  little  cross ;  the  idea  had  suddenly  pos- 
sessed him. 

"  You  hold  it,  sweetheart,"  he  murmured  ; "  and  I'll 
hold  it  too — and  we'll  make  our  vows  together.  It's 
all  so  holy,  dear." 

She  smiled,  laying  her  hand  obediently  beside 
his  own.  And  they  repeated  each  to  the  other  the 
immortal  promise  that  hurls  defiance  at  everything 
but  death.  Then  all  was  still,  their  souls  clinging  in 
a  new  embrace. 


A    DOUBLE   LIFE  281 

The  darkness  has  fallen,  the  noises  of  the  mighty 
city  stealing  in  upon  them  with  stealthier  tread,  as 
these  two  sought  to  take  up  the  past,  struggling  to 
believe  it  as  unstained  as  ever. 

But  the  deepening  night  was  not  responsible  for  all 
the  darkness  that  reigned  about  them.  A  shadowy 
something,  undefined  and  undefinable — but  the  more 
darksome  all  for  that — seemed  to  mingle  with  the  joy 
they  were  striving  to  protect.  Hattie's  gaze  was  fixed 
upon  far  distant  lights,  gravely  wondering,  question 
after  question  coming  and  going  in  silent  apparition. 

Once  or  twice  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart  as 
if  trying  to  locate  some  secret  wound  whose  flow 
must  be  quickly  staunched. 

"  Hattie,  my  darling.     Hattie." 

"  Yes,  Stephen." 

"  Don't  you  love  me,  Hattie  ?  Don't  you  love  me 
just  as  well  as  you  ever  did,  my  darling  ?  " 

"  Why,  Stephen,  what  a  foolish  question !  Yes,  of 
course  I  do ;  you're  my  husband." 

But  the  longing  eyes,  so  familiar  with  the  touch  of 
tears,  resumed  their  quest  of  the  far  unknown. 


XXII 

H ATT IE  And  HIRAM  MEET 

ING    them   '  The    Rosary,'  Mrs.    Wishart ; 
they've  never  heard  you  sing  that — and  it's 
your  best.     Will  you  let  me  turn  the  music 
for  you  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  ?  Do  you  really  like  it,  Father 
O'Rourke?" 

"  Loike  it !  Whin  oi'm  at  my  work,  it's  loike  to 
kill  me,  moindin'  to  forget  it ;  it's  loike  sippin'  nectar 
to  hear  it.  Where's  yere  husband  ?  " 

"  He's  busy  in  his  study — I  was  so  sorry  he  couldn't 
come  to-night." 

"  If  he  wants  to  kape  humble,  he'd  better  kape 
away  when  ye're  singin'  <  The  Rosary.'  Shall  I  raise 
the  piano-stool — up  forninst,  loike,  a  little  ?  "  and 
the  genial  priest  twirled  the  ascending  chair. 

Beauty  can  never  be  complete  till  sorrow  hath 
contributed  its  magic  part :  and  the  soulful  charm  of 
Hattie's  face  mingled  well  with  the  splendid  plaint  of 
her  thrilling  voice,  as  the  chastened  strains  of  "  The 
Rosary"  floated  from  her  lips. 

Nor  did  this  fascinating  shade  disappear  from  eye 
and  lip  as  she  returned  to  her  seat  in  an  embowered 
corner  of  the  room.  Some  one  had  taken  her  place 
at  the  piano,  turning  from  grave  to  gay,  convulsing 
every  listener  with  the  mirth  that  is  ever  thrice  wel- 
come after  seriousness,  like  sunshine  after  rain. 

282 


HAT'TIE   And   HIRAM   MEET     283 

But  Hattie,  after  a  momentary  smile,  was  oblivious 
to  it  all.  Her  thought  seemed  far  away,  as  indeed  it 
was,  busy  with  its  retrospect  of  the  path  by  which  she 
had  been  led,  since  she  came  to  Hamilton  as  the  wife 
of  its  most  prized  minister.  And  more  of  thorn  than 
blossom  was  mingled  with  the  view.  She  thought, 
and  sighed  as  she  thought,  of  her  rude  awakening  to 
the  necessity  under  which  she  had  been  laid  of  con- 
cealing her  former  relations  ;  and  she  thought,  with 
a  yet  heavier  heart,  of  the  long  series  of  subterfuges, 
so  alien  to  her  nature,  that  necessarily  had  to  follow. 

Signs  of  suspicion,  too,  and  jealousy,  and  even  of 
disdain,  she  fancied  she  could  now  and  then  detect ; 
as  was  only  natural,  perhaps,  considering  the  embar- 
rassment of  her  position.  In  fact,  she  was  beginning 
to  confess  to  herself  that  she  was  thoroughly  unhappy 
among  these  proud  rich  people — or,  at  least,  she 
knew  she  would  have  been  but  for  Stephen  and  his 
glorious  love.  That  was  an  unsetting  sun.  And  yet 
she  lived  in  trembling  dread  lest  she  herself  might  be 
the  cause,  innocent  though  she  was,  of  staining  his 
proud  position,  of  impairing  the  sway  that  his  person 
and  his  powers  had  secured  him. 

Another  little  sigh  broke  from  her  lips,  lost  in  a 
fluttering  prayer  for  help  and  guidance,  this  the  habit 
of  her  simple  life,  when  she  noticed  that  her  hostess 
had  taken  a  seat  beside  her. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  look  sober  enough  to  be  still 
at  your  rosary.  Really,  Mrs.  VVishart,  you  have  such 
a  lovely  voice ;  I  should  think  you  would  never  have 
a  pensive  moment." 


284  THE    UNDERTOW 

Hattie  smiled.  "  Sometimes  I  think  our  pensive 
moments  are  our  happiest,"  she  said ;  "  I  like  the 
light  best  when  it's  sheathed — if  not  too  much.  But 
I'm  sorry  I  was  looking  so  sober." 

"  I  daresay  you  often  feel  lonely  enough  among  us 
all,"  her  kind-hearted  hostess  went  on.  "  So  far 
from  your  girlhood's  home.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I'm 
expecting  a  gentleman  in  this  evening  who  came 
originally  from  your  dear  old  England.  He's  a  little 
late,  but  we  look  for  Mr.  Barker  any  time  up  to " 

"  What's  his  name,  did  you  say  ?  "  Hattie  inter- 
rupted, her  voice  under  full  control. 

"  Mr.  Barker,  Mr.  Hiram  Barker ;  he's  an  English- 
man, as  I  said.  He's  just  home  from  three  months 
in  California.  Why,  there  he  is  at  the  portiere — I 
didn't  hear  the  bell,  did  you  ?  He's  looking  for  me  : 
just  sit  here  a  minute  and  I'll  introduce  him." 

And  as  Hattie's  gaze  followed  her  hostess'  out- 
stretched hand,  her  thought  flew  back  to  the  mur- 
muring Dee,  swiftly  skimming  the  dim  days  that 
were  past.  The  young  impressionable  heart,  the 
youth's  handsome  face,  the  girlish  infatuation,  slight 
and  fleeting  though  it  was,  the  sudden  disappearance 
of  Hiram  Barker  and  the  tidings  that  he  had  gone  to 
America — then  her  heart's  swift  repair,  the  quick 
following  movement  of  her  motherless  life,  then  Lon- 
don— and  Stephen,  the  comfort  and  the  crown  of  all. 


Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  the  whole  story 
was  whispered  into  Stephen's  ear. 


H ATT IE   And    HIRAM  MEET     285 

"  And  tell  me,  darling — did  you  know  him  as  soon 
as  he  came  into  the  room  ?  " 

"  The  very  instant,  Stephen — and  I  was  so  sur- 
prised. I  couldn't  believe  my  eyes ;  and  he  stood 
stock  still  for  two  or  three  minutes.  Mrs.  Harcourt 
repeated  my  name  once  or  twice — and  then  he  said 
'  Hattie  '  under  his  breath — but  Mrs.  Harcourt  heard 
it.  And  he  sat  down  on  a  chair  right  near  the  door ; 
and  she  sat  right  down  beside  him  and  began  pelting 
him  with  questions.  I  didn't  know  what  to  do — I 
didn't  want  to  stay.  So  I  asked  her  if  I  might  use 
the  telephone ;  that  was  when  I  rung  you  up.  And 
then  I  told  her  you  wanted  me — and  I  came  away. 

"  And  oh,  Stephen,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  me 
when  I  came  back  into  the  parlour.  I  was  just 
wicked  enough  to  be  proud  of  myself  for  your  sake. 
I  stood  up  just  as  tall  as  ever  I  could  " — Hattie  was 
on  tiptoe  now — "  and  I  said  '  I'll  have  to  go,  Mrs. 
Harcourt,  my  husband  wants  me  ;  my  husband  wants 
me,'  I  said, '  and  I  must  hurry  on  ' — and  then  I  said 
good-evening  to  them  all  and  came  right  away." 

"  And  did  Mr.  Barker  say  anything ;  what  did  Mr. 
Barker  say  ?  "  Stephen  asked  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  he  offered  to  walk  home  with  me — but,  of 
course,  I  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  And  I  thanked  him. 
And,  oh  yes,  he  said  he  would  be  glad  to  do  any 
service  for  the  wife  of  such  a  friend  as  you.  And, 
Stephen,  I  know  it's  awful  of  me  to  say  it ;  but  I  saw 
into  his  eyes — I'm  hardly  ever  mistaken — and  I  just 
believe  he  just  hates  you.  I  just  know  he  does. 
And  if  he  does,  I'll  hate  him,"  Hattie's  eyes  flashing 


286  THE    UNDERTOW 

with  the  words.  "  If  anybody  dares  to  hate  you, 
darling,  I'll  just  hate  them  back,  I  will.  And  I'm 
sure " 

"  Hush,  sweetheart,  hush,"  Stephen  interrupted, 
his  arm  twining  in  fond  pride  around  her  neck,  draw- 
ing the  flushed  face  down  to  his  own,  "  don't  say 
that,  darling.  Perhaps  he's  not  as  fond  of  me  as 
some  people — but  perhaps  he  has  some  reason  not  to 
like  me." 

"  What  reason  could  he  have  ? "  cried  Hattie, 
"  why  shouldn't  he  like  you — do  you  know  anything 
particular  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  everything,  Hattie — but  I  knew 
Hiram  when  he  first  came  out  from  England.  And 
I  may  have  injured  him — without  meaning  to,"  he 
went  on  cautiously.  "  That  is — I  made  a  mistake,  I 
think.  I  was  very  young — and  Hiram  finds  it  hard 
perhaps " 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  Hattie  contradicted ;  "  you 
have  talked  like  that  once  before,  Stephen ;  and  I 
won't  let  you — so  there." 

Stephen  went  on :  "  But  I  really  think  he's  trying 
to  be  a  good  friend  of  mine  now,  Hattie.  He  has 
tried  to  befriend  me  in  one  or  two  ways ;  and  I  want 
you  to  do  something  for  me,  darling.  I  want  you  to 
be  nice  to  Hiram — I  want  you  to  be  nice  to  him. 
You  say  there  was  nothing  that  left  any  scar  between 
you  and  him  ;  he  was  fickle — and — and  mean — and 
you  didn't  care  much.  But  that's  what  gave  you  to 
me,  my  darling — look  up,  Hattie — kiss  me.  That 
was  what  gave  you  to  me,  dearie.  And  he  had  a 


HATTIE   And   HIRAM  MEET     287 

disappointment  here — he  was  in  love  years  ago,  as  I 
told  you." 

"  What  was  she  like  ?  "  cried  the  most  feminine 
Hattie,  "  tell  me  about  her." 

"  She  was  short  and  had  rather  dark  hair," 
Stephen  answered. 

"  What  kind  of  eyes  ?  " 

"  Grey,  I  think — I've  forgotten  since  I  saw 
yours." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Stephen.  Why  didn't  he 
marry  her  after  all  ?  Why  didn't  he  marry  her  ?  " 

Stephen's  face  was  crimson. 

"  Why  are  you  blushing  so,  Stephen — Stephen, 
your  face  is  like  a  sunset.  Don't  look  at  me  like 
that — were  you  in  love  with  her  yourself?  Stephen 
Wishart,  were  you  in  love  with  her  ?  "  and  she  took 
his  face  in  both  her  hands,  holding  it  straight  in 
front  of  her ;  "  tell  me  true  now." 

"  No,  darling,  I  never  was." 

"  Then  why  didn't  he  marry  her — why  won't  you 
tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  Hattie — don't  ask  me.  There 
was  a  mistake — a  misunderstanding — I  can't  explain 
it  to  you.  But  he  got  angry — he  thought — that  is, 
Hiram  is  a  very  passionate  man,  you  know.  I  can't 
tell  you,  Hattie — let  me  think  a  moment."  And  an 
undimmed  drama  rolled  before  his  eyes,  the  dread 
indelible  that  never  fades,  since  it  is  kept  so  carefully 
in  the  dark. 

"  No,  Hattie,  I  can't  tell  you.  Hiram  is  my 
friend,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  brightening  sud- 


288  THE    UNDERTOW 

denly ;  "  and  he's  trying  to  be  friendly,  I  think  ;  and 
I  want  you  to  be  nice  to  him,  as  I  said.  I  owe  a 
great  deal  to  him — I  can't  just  tell  how — but  I'm 
under  great  obligations  to  him.  He  can  either  help 
or  hurt  me  a  great  deal ;  and  you'll  try  to  be  pleasant 
to  him  for  your  husband's  sake,  won't  you, 
Hattie?" 

Hattie  pondered.  "  I'd  do  anything  for  you,  dear 
— yes,  I'll  try.  And  there  really  isn't  any  reason 
why  I  shouldn't — if  he's  nice  to  you,"  she  added  em- 
phatically. Then  silence. 

"  Hattie,  what's  the  matter  ?  What  makes  this 
plaintive  mood  that  I  notice  so  often  lately  about  my 
darling  ?  Tell  me  what's  troubling  you." 

Softly  he  wooed  her  till  the  golden  head  was  rest- 
ing beside  his,  the  quivering  lips  finally  breaking 
forth : 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  I  will  tell  you.  I'm  not  happy 
here — except  for  you,  my  darling.  If  it  weren't  for 
my  husband,  I  couldn't  stand  it  another  day.  I  be- 
lieve some  of  those  great  people  think  I  didn't  win 
you  fairly — and  I  did,  I  did,"  she  exclaimed,  the 
lovely  eyes  dancing  with  the  words.  "  You  know  I 
tried  to  run  away  from  you — into  the  woods, 
Stephen.  You  remember — and  you  followed  me.  I 
wouldn't  run  far  now,  would  I,  darling  ?  "  she  mur- 
mured, as  his  lips  fell  softly  on  her  own. 

"  But,  Stephen,  really,  I'm  not  happy  here,"  she 
went  on ;  "I  believe  lots  of  them  half  suspect — and 
anyhow,  I  don't  believe  they  really  love  the  simple 
Gospel.  And  I  don't  think  they  bring  out  the  best 


HATriE  And   HIRAM  MEET     289 

that's  in  you,  Stephen — as  a  preacher,  I  mean.  Your 
sermons  are  so  brilliant :  of  course,  I  suppose  they 
have  to  be,  for  people  like  them.  But  I  do  think, 
darling,  anybody  could  preach  better  to  a  congrega- 
tion that  felt  they  needed  something,  just  what  these 
people  don't  feel. 

"  Stephen,  do  you  remember  that  night-meeting 
you  and  I  attended  at  the  Jerry  McAuley  mission  in 
New  York  ?  Oh,"  she  cried,  her  face  all  aglow,  "  I 
did  so  want  to  hear  you  speak  that  night — I  thought 
it  was  lovely  there — it  was  so  real ;  it  was  like  saving 
people  from  a  wreck.  I  think  about  it  nearly  every 
day.  I'm  sure  we  could  be  happy  there — or  any- 
where where  they  really  felt  their  need  of  us.  Oh, 
Stephen,"  and  his  wife's  arms  are  around  his  neck, 
"  I  want  to  feel  the  reality  of  it,  darling — it  makes  you 
so  much  dearer  to  me.  And  it's  all  so  much  like 
playing  church,  with  those  rich  proud  people.  Do 
you  know,"  she  went  on  abandonedly,  "  I  wish  you 
had  gone  to  Morven — I  do — I  do;  that  dear  old 
elder  that  I  met  that  Presbytery  day  was  so  sweet 
and  true.  Can't  we  get  some  place  like  that, 
Stephen,  some  nice  country  place,  with  a  dear  little 
manse, — and  trees — and  flowers — and  simple  souls 
that  really  love  the  Gospel  and " 

But  Stephen  interrupted  her.  "  You  don't  under- 
stand, Hattie — you  don't  understand  at  all.  Why,  I 
would  be  wasted  among  people  like  that.  You 
know  I'm  not  vain;  but  what  good  would  all  my 
books,  and  all  my  education,  and  my — scholarship  ; 
what  good  would  they  be  for  a  simple  congregation 


290  THE    UNDERTOW 

like  that?  There's  a  fitness  in  everything,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Hattie  said ;  "  but  poor  people 
have  the  same  kind  of  sickness  as  rich  people — and 
the  same  kind  of  hunger.  And  isn't  it  just  the  Bread 
of  Life  everybody  wants  after  all,  the  ignorant  just 
as  well  as  the  learned  ?  Everybody's  soul  has  the 
same  kind  of  hunger,  Stephen." 

Her  husband  was  fumbling  in  his  pocket,  his  mind 
on  another  quest. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that's  a  beautiful  thought  of 
yours,  Hattie  ;  but  I've  got  a  little  plan.  You  know, 
you  promised  to  go  to  father's  in  a  month  or  two. 
Well, I  got  a  railway  time-table  to-day ;  and  I  believe 
I'll  take  you  to  Morven — you  can  go  on  to  the  farm 
the  same  day.  And  we'll  have  a  look  at  Morven  ; 
it's  a  pretty  country  place,  they  say — but  I  think  my 
little  wife  will  realize  it's  hardly  the  place  for  us.  Al- 
though," taking  her  hand  in  his,  "  I  could  be  happy 
anywhere,  my  darling,  if  you  were  with  me.  It's 
love  that  makes  the  wilderness  blossom  like  the  rose 
— and  anyhow,  we'll  have  a  happy  country  day,  and 
we'll  forget  all  our  troubles  and  just  remember  that 
we  have  each  other." 

And  the  close  clinging  form  told  him  that  they 
who  have  the  love  and  loyalty  of  one  other  life  can 
never  be  reckoned  poor. 


XXIII 
GATHERING    CLOUDS 

"  TTSNT  this   lovely?     Why,   there   really  isn't 
any  Morven  at  all — it's  not  a  place,  is  it  ?  " 

A  But  there  was  no  shade  of  disappointment 
upon  the  glowing  face  that  looked  out  so  eagerly  on 
the  rich  fields  of  green  stretched  before  them  on 
every  hand.  The  birds'  sweet  music  mingled  with 
the  droning  sound  of  sauntering  bees  ;  the  call  of  the 
plowboy  to  his  lazy  team  came  floating  from  afar ; 
soft  fleecy  clouds  drifted  here  and  there  across  the 
sky.  For  the  day  was  not  one  of  those  boisterous 
summer  days  that  laugh  out  loud  for  very  joy  of 
living ;  but  subdued  and  smiling,  rather,  smiling 
gravely  through  its  sunny  veil  of  cloud,  clothing  all 
the  earth  with  its  considerate  light. 

"  Let  us  rest  here,  Stephen  ;  isn't  it  lovely  on  this 
bank  ?  And  what  a  splendid  elm,  it's  like  old  Eng- 
land," and  Hattie's  voice  rang  high  with  happiness. 
"  Let  us  take  long  breaths,  Stephen.  I  just  love  to 
think  how  sweet  and  lovely  it  is  here,  and  how  hot 
and  dusty  it  is  in  the  city.  You  remember,  don't 
you,  Stephen — don't  you  remember  under  another 
tree  ?  "  and  the  still  bridal  face  looked  out  laughingly 
at  her  husband's.  "  I  believe  you've  forgotten — I 
really  do." 

291 


292  THE   UNDERTOW 

"  No,  dear,"  and  his  tall  form  is  flung  among  the 
flowers,  "  I  have  not — and  never  will.  But  you 
mustn't  forget  that  it  was  one  of  those  awful  city 
streets  that  first  gave  you  to  me,  Hattie ;  that's  the 
sacred  place  to  me.  What's  that  you're  doing  ?  " 

"  I'm  making  a  crown — a  May-queen  crown,  like 
what  we  used  to  make  in  England.  Isn't  it  sweet? 
Go  get  me  those  flowers  yonder." 

Crowned  and  garlanded  she  sits,  humming  some 
old  familiar  song  and  looking  out  upon  the  sweeping 
valley,  upon  the  cattle  grazing  on  the  rich  hillsides  or 
resting  under  ample  trees,  upon  the  flowing  river 
gleaming  far  beneath  them,  upon  the  modest  church 
and  the  humble  house  that  seems  to  sleep  within  its 
shadow. 

The  hours  have  flown  fast,  fleet  as  flowery  hours 
ever  are ;  and  Hattie  suddenly  springs  to  her  feet. 

"  Stephen,  I  want  to  see  the  church — and  the 
manse.  Come  on,  my  train  goes  in  an  hour." 

"What  for?  "he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  but  it  looks  so  cunning.  Come 
on — I'll  lift  you  up."  And  with  mock  effort  she 
takes  his  hand,  lifting  him  ponderously  to  his  feet. 

"  That's  one  thing  I  love  about  the  country,  you 
can  walk  hand  in  hand,"  she  said,  as  they  sauntered 
slowly  toward  the  valley. 

They  wandered  a  few  minutes  around  the  old 
graveyard,  not  in  the  best  of  repair,  but  strewed  with 
many  a  quaint  epitaph  and  homely  text. 

"  Look,  Hattie,  here's  a  specimen  of  the  scholar- 
ship in  these  parts.  Their  muse  has  been  at  work. 


GATHERING    CLOUDS  293 

That  little  fellow's  evidently  buried  beside  his  mother. 
Read  that  verse  there." 
She  leaned  over : 

"  Farewell,  my  dear  and  loving  pa, 
God  called  me  home  to  dwell  with  ma ; 
And  when  you  come  we'll  happy  be  — 
Won't  ma  be  glad  my  pa  to  see  ?  " 

"  They  must  be  a  poetic  people  here,"  Stephen 
said,  smiling,  when  she  had  finished ;  "  how  would 
you  like  your  husband  to  be  preaching  to  talent  like 
that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  anything  very  wrong  about  that," 
Hattie  defended ;  "  they  believe  it  anyhow — and 
that's  everything.  Besides,  they're  not  all  like  that. 
I  saw  one  over  yonder — there  it  is ;  did  you  ever 
read  anything  better  than  that  ?  " 

He  read  it  aloud. 

"  Behold  what  witnesses  unseen 

Encompass  us  around  — 
Men  once  like  us  with  suffering  tried 
But  now  with  glory  "crowned." 

"  Yes,  that's  very  good,"  he  said, "  it's  an  old  para- 
phrase— my  father  loves  them." 

They  went  silently  around  the  corner  of  the  church 
and  at  a  little  distance  saw  the  unpretentious  manse. 

The  sight  was  a  pretty  one.  For  the  ancient  walls 
of  stone  were  almost  hidden  with  the  flowering  vine 
that  clung  to  them  ;  the  old  rain  barrels,  relics  of  the 
past,  still  kept  their  place  beneath  the  spouts  that 


294  THE    UNDERTOW 

marked  every  corner  ;  an  ancient  lightning  rod  kept 
its  lonely  vigil  far  aloft. 

But  the  spreading  lawn  before  the  house  was  full  of 
animation.  Three  children,  of  adjacent  ages,  were 
striving  to  smother  each  other  with  the  garlands  that 
were  now  in  ruins  ;  tiring  of  this,  they  bedecked  the 
patient  horse  that  frisked  his  tail  lazily  beneath  the 
shady  apple  tree,  submitting  to  the  coronation  with  a 
meekness  that  spoke  of  long  experience.  And  al- 
most at  his  feet,  sound  asleep,  a  baby  boy  slumbered 
sweetly,  his  pillow  a  sunbonnet  that  one  of  his 
seniors  had  discarded. 

Peering  toward  the  window,  they  could  just  make 
out  the  form  of  a  man — evidently  the  minister — 
poring  over  some  book  that  engrossed  his  whole 
attention.  From  what  was  evidently  the  kitchen,  the 
sound  of  singing  came,  mingling  with  the  rattle  of 
dishes  that  explained  the  savoury  odour  floating  out  to 
them  ;  once  they  saw  the  mother's  comely  face  as  she 
stepped  into  the  study  for  a  moment — and  they  saw 
her  bend  an  instant  above  the  man  with  the  book, 
then  disappear,  her  song  more  blithe  and  her  face 
more  radiant  than  before. 

Hattie's  eyes  were  full  of  hunger.  They  lingered 
long  on  the  happy  scene,  taking  in  its  every  detail, 
coveting  the  sweet  simplicity. 

"  I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  go,  Stephen,"  she  said 
presently ;  "  I'll  just  have  time  to  get  my  train.  But 
oh,  Stephen,  doesn't  it  make  you  envious  ?  Only  it's 
wicked  to  be  envious,  I  know." 


GATHERING    CLOUDS  295 

"  What,"  her  husband  exclaimed,  "  envious  of 
what  ?  " 

"  You  know,  Stephen — oh,  if  we  only  had  a  church 
and  a  dear  little  house  like  that — and  everything  they 
have ;  isn't  it  the  loveliest  place  for  children, 
Stephen?"  she  added,  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
"  And  on  Sunday,  to  see  them  coming  from  all 
around — not  rich  or  well  dressed  or  anything — but 
true  and  sincere  and  good,  really  good.  And  we 
could  have  the  windows  open  in  the  church ;  and 
maybe  a  little  bird  would  fly  in  sometimes — they  used 
to  in  England — and  you  could  smell  the  flowers. 
And  everything  would  be  so  true — so  real.  But  we'll 
have  to  hurry  on,  Stephen.  What  time  will  I  get  to 
Rosehill  ?  " 

Stephen  told  her ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were 
at  the  rustic  station.  The  approaching  train  could  be 
already  seen  flying  across  the  verdant  fields. 

"  Good-bye,  Stephen — don't  work  too  hard." 

"  Good-bye,  darling.  Try  and  help  Rube  and 
Bessie  on  a  bit — tell  them  what  good  time  you  and  I 
made.  And  be  back  in  a  week,  remember.  Good- 
bye, Hattie." 

Two  days  later,  a  half-bared  arm  was  flinging  a  sun- 
bonnet  at  the  head  of  the  giant  figure  on  the  verandah 
of  the  old  farmhouse. 

"  No,  Reuben,  I  don't  want  it — the  sun  is  almost 
down.  And  I'm  going  all  alone;  I  don't  even  want 
Collie  with  me.  I'm  going  to  roam  over  some  of  the 


296  THE    UNDERTOW 

scenes  my  husband  used  to  visit  when  he  was  a  boy 
— and  I'm  not  going  to  think  of  anybody  but  him." 

"  If  I  had  it  as  bad  as  you,  I  think  I'd  take  some- 
thing for  it.  Bessie  and  I  are  going  to  Hamilton 
in  a  day  or  two.  Shall  we  consult  a  heart  specialist 
for  you  ? "  and  Reuben's  laugh  shook  the  blossoms 
hanging  from  the  lattice. 

"  Tut,  tut,  Reuben  ;  let  nature  hae  its  course.  Only 
mind  ye,  lassie — if  it  hadna  been  for  me,  ye  wadna 
hae  had  him  at  a'." 

"  All  right,  father,  bless  your  dear  heart.  If  he 
only  grows  old  just  like  you  have,  I'll  be  satisfied. 
Good-bye,  I'll  help  you  with  the  milking  when  I 
come  back." 

"  She's  a  bonny  yin,  Reuben  ;  Stephen  struck  ile 
aboot  the  same  time  we  did  oorsels,"  the  old  man 
murmured  happily  as  the  tripping  form  disappeared 
around  the  fringe  of  woods. 

Hattie  wandered  on,  the  pure  fragrance  of  all  about 
thrilling  her  with  nameless  joy,  her  heart  singing  back 
its  answer  to  the  sweet  twilight  silence  that  chanted 
the  evening's  ancient  hymn. 

By  and  by  the  woods,  never  so  beguiling  as  in 
the  failing  light,  called  her  to  their  side.  She 
wandered  in  a  little  way,  seating  herself  upon  a  moss- 
grown  log,  her  thoughts  mingling  with  the  whisper- 
ing voices  that  joined  the  sylvan  lullaby. 

She  is  startled  suddenly  by  a  crackling  footfall — 
and  in  a  moment  Hiram  stood  before  her.  Hattie 
leaped  to  her  feet. 

"  Where    did  you   come   from,    Hiram  ?     What 


GATHERING    CLOUDS  297 

brings  you  here  ?  "  she  cried,  and  her  face  is  pallid  in 
its  agitation. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Hattie — I  just  ran  down 
here  for  a  little  holiday — having  another  look  at  the 
old  scenes  and  faces."  Then  followed  a  more  detailed 
explanation. 

The  gloom  deepened  about  them  as  they  sat,  still 
talking  intently.  Hattie  is  pleading  for  something. 

"  Oh,  Hiram,"  she  said,  her  voice  full  of  entreaty, 
"  I  thought  you  promised  me  before ;  and  I  was  get- 
ting happy  again.  Don't,  Hiram — I  implore  you, 
don't.  You  know  I  love  him ;  and  if  you  do  what 
you  say  he'll  be  ruined.  For  my  sake,  Hiram." 

The  man's  face  darkened.  "  I've  got  him  where  I 
want  him  now — and  if  it  weren't  for  you  I'd  crush 
him  like  an  egg-shell.  Either  one  of  those  things 
would  settle  him — it's  years  ago  now,  but  I  don't  for- 
get. He  ruined  me,  as  well." 

"  Oh,  Hiram,  Hiram  !     If  God " 

"  And  then  he  dared  to  come  and  preach  the  Gos- 
pel right  at  my  back  door.  And  the  fool  took  a  hand 
in  with  me  at  stocks — stocks  on  margin — at  my  ex- 
pense, too ;  there's  his  note  for  what  he  owes  me ;  too 
bad  that  grace  wouldn't  pay  it — the  kind  he  chatters 
about  from  the  pulpit.  You're  a  fool  to  cry,  Hattie 
— he's  not  worth  it." 

"  He  is,  he  is,"  poor  Hattie  cried  desperately ;  "  I 
know  him  better  than  you  do — and  he  wants  to  do 
right ;  he  really  does.  And  I  don't  believe  what  you 
say  about  him ;  and  even  if  he  had — had — gone  astray, 
he's  trying — I  know  he's  trying.  And  we  can  save 


298  THE    UNDERTOW 

up  and  pay  you  that  money — and  I  believe  in  him— • 
I  love  him  so.  And  you  shan't  ruin  him,  you  said 
before  you  wouldn't.  You  couldn't.  I'll  save  him 
myself — oh,  God,  help  me." 

Low  and  musical,  with  a  wild  melody  of  anguish, 
her  cry  surged  from  her  trembling  lips,  her  face 
turned  wistfully  toward  her  tormentor,  the  bitter  tears 
standing  on  her  cheeks.  Again  and  again  the  cry 
broke  from  her  lips ;  "  Poor  Stephen,  poor,  poor 
Stephen,"  rocking  to  and  fro  in  her  distress.  A 
shade  of  pity  played  on  Hiram's  face,  mingling  with 
the  power  and  passion  that  were  written  there.  "  I 
have  your  letter,  Hattie,"  he  said  at  length.  "  I  have 
it  in  my  pocket.  And  I'll  admit  it  moved  me  a  good 
deal — especially  at  the  close,  where  you  asked  me  not 
to  do  it  if  I  loved  you — if  I  loved  you.  Did  you 
mean  that,  Hattie  ?  " 

Hattie  pondered  a  moment.  "  Mean  it  ?  Yes,  of 
course  I  meant  it,"  she  finally  answered,  turning  and 
looking  full  at  the  strong  face  above  her.  "  You  said 
you  did." 

"  Yes,  by  God,"  he  answered  passionately,  moving 
toward  the  white-robed  figure  beside  him.  She  sprang 
quickly  beyond  his  reach. 

"  Don't — you  shan't,  Hiram."  Her  tone  sufficed. 
He  took  his  seat  again.  "  Yes,  you  know  I  love 
you,"  he  continued.  "  I've  always  loved  you — though 
I  didn't  know  it  once — and  I  was  a  fool  in  England." 
Then  his  voice  grew  softer.  "  Don't  you  love  me  at 
all,  Hattie  ?  Not  the  least  bit  like  long  ago — just  my 
own  place,  Hattie--* "  he  urged,  his  turn  to  plead. 


GATHERING    CLOUDS  299 

She  glanced  a  moment  at  the  powerful  and  hand- 
some face  turned  down  upon  her.  Something  of  the 
old  spell  she  could  remember — but  it  was  only  a 
memory. 

"  No,"  she  said  resolutely,  "  no,  Hiram ;  I'm  all  my 
husband's — nobody  has  any  place  but  Stephen.  And 
I  don't  want  you  to  love  me,  Hiram — you  have  no 
right  to.  Nobody  has  any  right,  only  Stephen.  But 
if  you  do,"  and  the  girlish  voice  is  full  of  simple 
earnestness,  "  if  you  do,  I  don't  see  how  you  could 
carry  out  your  threat — that's  what  I  meant,  Hiram." 

Neither  spoke  for  long.  The  man  was  the  first  to 
break  the  silence. 

"  Hattie,  you  can  trust  me — you  can  trust  me  im- 
plicitly." 

Hattie  made  a  quick  movement  of  joy. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Hiram  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say." 

"  Hush,  what's  that  moving,  Hiram  ?  Did  you 
hear  anything  ?  I  thought  I  heard  a  noise." 

"  No — it's  only  the  wind — you  can  trust  me,  Hat- 
tie.  I  will  disclose  nothing — I  promise  you.  But 
it's  only  for  your  sake." 

He  had  been  drawing  closer  to  her  as  he  spoke ; 
and,  suddenly  flinging  forward  in  uncontrollable 
eagerness,  his  lips  just  touched  her  cheek  as  she 
leaped  from  him  to  her  feet. 

"  Forgive  me,  Hattie,"  he  cried  a  moment  later  as 
she  stood  panting,  her  eyes  burning  in  the  dark. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  Hattie's  voice  was 
full  of  calm  dignity  when  she  answered : 


300  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Yes,  I'll  forgive  you ;  I'll  forgive  you.  If  you 
never  knew  how  much  I'm  Stephen's,  you  know  it 
now.  And  I  know  you'll  believe  in  him  yet.  I  shall 
never  forget  your  promise.  And — and — we'll  pray 
for  you.  Good-night,  I'm  going  back  to  father's." 

Working  in  strange  emotion  was  the  cruel  face 
that  turned  silently  toward  the  village.  Hiram  strode 
swiftly  on,  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

"  By  heaven,"  he  muttered,  "  I  can  crush  him  with- 
out telling  anybody  anything.  He  thinks  every- 
thing's forgotten — but  my  memory's  not  so  short  as 
God's." 

And  his  hand  wandered  toward  his  pocket,  sav- 
agely clutching  at  a  letter  that  he  knew  was  there 
"  I  was  afraid  she'd  want  it  back,"  he  mumbled. 

And  through  the  gathered  gloom  a  rustling  form 
flew  quickly  homeward ;  and  a  dimpled  hand  was 
holding  a  tiny  cross  tight  against  a  burning  cheek ; 
and  trembling  lips  were  saying  half  aloud : 

"  Oh,  God,  save  Stephen — save  him  for  me,  oh 
God." 


XXIV 
The   GRIP  of   The    UNDERTOW 

THE  apartments  which  Stephen  and  his  wife 
had  taken  were  more  elaborate  than  those 
he  had  occupied  alone.  Yet,  richly  fur- 
nished though  they  were,  they  seemed  desolate 
enough  as  Stephen  sat,  forty-eight  hours  after  his  visit 
to  Morven,  reading  a  letter  from  his  wife.  For  he 
was  alone ;  and  he  begrudged  every  hour  that  sep- 
arated him  from  one  in  whom  his  whole  life  was  cen- 
tred now.  Besides,  the  letter  in  his  hand  was  redo- 
lent of  the  sweet  tenderness  that  her  nature  possessed 
in  such  rich  abundance — toward  him  at  least ;  and  he 
smiled  with  happiness  as  he  read  over  again  the  en- 
dearing words. 

Then  he  carelessly  picked  up  another  letter  that 
the  same  mail  had  brought ;  it  was  addressed  to  his 
wife.  He  examined  it  idly,  wondering  whether  or 
not  he  should  send  it  on.  But  he  noticed  suddenly 
that  it  bore  "  immediate  "  written  over  the  left-hand 
corner.  The  writing  looked  familiar — and  his  curi- 
osity is  aroused.  Undoubtedly  it  is  something  she 
ought  to  know  at  once ;  perhaps  it  has  a  message 
that  should  be  telegraphed.  Besides,  he  feels  sure 
Hattie  would  wish  him  to  open  it ;  he  has  often  told 
her  to  do  the  same  with  his  when  he  was  absent. 

301 


302  THE    UNDERTOW 

A  moment's  hesitation ;  then  a  quick  resolve — and 
he  tears  the  letter  open. 

How  thin  the  veil  between  happiness  and  anguish  ! 
Between  eternal  day  and  eternal  night !  "  Thin  as  a 
piece  of  paper,"  we  often  say,  little  recking  the  cruel 
fitness  of  the  illustration.  A  letter  lies  unopened ; 
and  life's  current  flows  on  in  unconscious  calm.  Open 
it,  break  through  the  wafer  thinness ;  and  that  same 
stream  flashes  in  the  sunlight  never  more.  The  wafer 
thinness  was  all  that  held  back  the  billows,  to  beat 
mercilessly  now  upon  your  head  till  it  finds  shelter  in 
the  grave. 

The  warrant  of  your  doom,  it  is  true,  was  signed 
and  sealed  all  the  while ;  but  it  had  never  been  ex- 
ecuted, nor  had  you  ever  known  it,  but  for  that  sim- 
ple movement  of  the  finger,  that  rustling  page,  that 
quick  eternal  flash,  followed  by  the  blackness  of  dark- 
ness that  no  earthly  torch  can  banish. 

The  letter  began,  "  My  darling," — and  Stephen 
smiled  as  his  eye  fell  upon  the  words.  Some  hyster- 
ical woman  that's  going  to  tell  her  what  a  glorious 
voice  she  has,  he  thought,  turning  the  page  over  to 
see  the  signature.  He  gasped  violently,  his  heart 
bounded  till  he  could  hear  it,  and  he  felt  the  sweat 
starting  on  his  brow.  The  signature  was  Hiram's. 

Could  it  be  a  joke  ?  Yet  it  is  surely  Hiram's  writ- 
ing. He  will  make  sure ;  he  has  more  than  one  note 
from  him,  reminding  him  of  payments  long  past  due. 
He  snatches  his  keys  from  his  pocket  and  fumbles 
desperately  for  the  little  one  that  opens  his  desk. 
Why  can  he  not  find  it  ?  And  why  must  his  hand 


The  GRIP  of  The   UNDERTOW    303 

shake  so  ?  He  has  it  now — no,  it's  the  wrong  one ; 
this  is  it — and  in  a  moment  the  object  of  his  search 
is  shaking  in  his  hand.  Stern,  contemptuous,  threat- 
ening, he  had  remembered  it  to  be — but  its  fangs  are 
drawn  now ;  all  its  poison  is  dead  and  gone.  Into 
insignificance  and  contempt  all  its  former  dread  has 
fallen — a  veriest  trifle,  as  he  holds  the  two  together  ; 
and  he  is  conscious,  even  amid  his  anguish,  of  a  swift 
wonder  why  the  paltry  thing  had  ever  troubled  him. 

For  the  writing  is  the  same. 

"  I  have  thought  it  over,"  the  letter  said  among 
other  things,  "  and  I  believe  you  are  right  about  your 
letter  to  me.  It's  a  little  dangerous,  as  you  said ;  for 
if  anything  should  happen  to  me,  there's  no  telling 
whose  hands  your  letter  would  fall  into.  But  I  would 
sooner  burn  up  the  original  of  the  Gospels  than  des- 
troy one  of  your  letters — so  I  return  it  to  you  to  do 
what  you  think  best  with  it.  I'm  only  sending  the 
risky  part — I  have  torn  it  off,  for  I  want  to  keep  the 
rest.  I  think  you  said  the  night  before  last  (oh, 
Hattie,  I  shall  never  forget  that  night),  that  you'd 
likely  be  home  to-morrow.  You  ought  to  get  this 
then ;  and  anyhow,  S will  most  likely  be  out  vis- 
iting when  this  letter  is  delivered.  So  it  ought 
to  be  all  right.  I'll  drop  around  soon.  Mean- 
time ..." 

Where  is  her  letter  to  him — or  the  fragment  of  it 
that  he  speaks  of  ?  He  tears  the  envelope  apart, 
shaking  it  over  the  floor — but  it  does  not  appear. 
Ah,  here  it  is,  lying  at  his  feet !  He  snatches  at  it — 
but  it  is  hers  to  him  and  his  eyes  fall  upon  a  tender 


304  THE    UNDERTOW 

phrase  as  he  flings  it  from  him,  a  half  cry,  half  sob, 
breaking  from  his  lips.  What  is  that  white  lying 
yonder  ?  His  fingers  grope  for  it ;  he  recognizes  the 
familiar  hand — and  he  knows  that  his  fate  is  there. 
His  eyes  burn  so  that  he  can  scarcely  read.  It  is  a 
tiny  piece  of  paper  and  he  can  see  where  it  has  been 
torn  from  the  rest. 

.  .  .  "  If  you  love  me,  Hiram — if  you  love 
me,  don't  do  what  you  said.  You  understand,  you 
know  what  I  mean,  though  no  one  else  would  under- 
stand." 

Nothing  but  her  first  name  is  signed,  but  it  is 
enough — the  writing  is  his  wife's. 

And  Stephen  knows  now  that  his  life  is  done.  He 
walks  dumbly  from  one  part  of  the  room  to  the 
other,  looks  out  on  the  busy  street,  marvelling  at  its 
jostling  throng,  marvels  as  he  sees  an  Italian  passing 
round  his  hat,  smirking  and  grinning  at  his  bene- 
factors. Perspiration  is  standing  wet  on  his  forehead 
— he  wonders  why.  Then  the  clock  on  the  mantel 
strikes ;  and  he  thinks  of  the  future,  dark,  hopeless, 
alone,  his  life's  treasure  fallen  and  shattered  on  life's 
stone  floor,  never  to  be  repaired. 

That  it  is  forever — forever  ;  this  is  the  thought  that 
throbs  through  his  brain.  Whatever  life  may  bring 
to  him  of  success  or  happiness  or  pleasure  or  friend- 
ship or  travel  or  influence,  still  it  must  be  all  dark, 
all  bitterness,  all  failure. 

That  happiness — the  thing  everybody  loves — that 
this  can  never  be  his  again  ;  the  thought  filters  slowly 
through  his  mind,  renewing  its  attack  again  and 


The  GRIP  of  The  UNDERTOW    305 

again,  its  channel  smoother  with  each  return.  That 
he  has  failed  in  the  chiefest  thing  of  all,  the  part  on 
which  all  depends,  that  he  is  wounded  for  life  in  the 
very  heart  of  him ;  this,  in  shadowy  outline,  grows 
clearer  and  clearer  still.  That  there  can  be  no  real 
healing ;  that  to-morrow,  and  the  day  after,  and  the 
day  after  that,  and  all  the  days,  can  never  give  him 
back  what  he  had  before.  That  other  men  will  love 
and  marry  and  be  happy  and  keep  their  happiness 
fresh  and  pure  to  the  last ;  but  his  chance  is  past,  his 
joy  is  dead,  his  life,  his  real  life  is  done ;  and  for  him 
nothing  now  but  the  ashes  of  disappointment  and  the 
lash  of  memory ;  all  these  pledges  of  his  doom  pass 
one  by  one  before  his  eyes. 

The  winds  begin  to  rise  within  ;  and  soon  they  are 
storming  in  great  gusts  about  his  heart. 

His  only  hope  is  in  getting  free  from  her,  from  her 
spell,  from  the  fascination  of  her  beauty  and  of  what 
he  had  thought  was  unmixed  purity  and  grace.  He 
must  break  loose  from  the  torture  of  love  at  any  cost, 
he  declares  bitterly  to  himself.  He  may  lose  much 
— but  he  will  refuse  to  suffer.  This  he  boisterously 
repeats ;  this  awful  cataract  over  which  he  has 
plunged  so  suddenly  may  tear  his  treasure  from  him, 
but  it  shall  not  leave  him  drenched  and  trembling 
always.  He  will  take  life  up  again,  love  alone  left  out. 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  don't  want  any,"  he  says  sul- 
lenly ;  for  a  knock  at  the  door  calls  him  to  the  wait- 
ing meal. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  calls  to  the  receding  messenger, 
"  I  have  changed  my  mind ;  I'll  be  down  directly." 


306  THE    UNDERTOW 

He  locks  his  door  behind  him,  reopened  ten  or  fif- 
teen minutes  later  as  the  landlady  says  to  the  others 
below : 

"  I  never  seen  Mr.  Wishart  so  noisy  and  funny  be- 
fore. He  just  seemed  sot  on  makin"  us  all  laugh  ;  he 
wouldn't  take  no  dinner  himself  and  he  wouldn't  let 
us  eat  our  victuals  neither — he's  a  funny  man." 

Meanwhile  their  entertainer  was  restored  to  the 
suspended  storm.  His  former  vows  were  violently 
renewed.  He  would  give  himself  to  his  work,  his 
books,  his  profession,  and  he  would  find  his  happi- 
ness there — thus  ran  his  resolve  of  healing.  He 
would  rise  higher  and  higher — and  the  increasing 
gulf  would  be  her  punishment. 

Deep  bitterness  soon  mingled  itself  with  his  tum- 
bling thoughts  ;  bitterness  and  self-pity,  that  go  ever 
hand  in  hand.  She  is  not  worthy  of  me,  he  thought 
— she  is  not  worthy  of  me  or  of  my  love.  And  the 
opinion  pleased  him  well.  Strange,  passing  strange, 
he  reflected,  that  this  should  be  her  return  for  all  his 
devotion,  his  fondness,  almost  idolatry,  pouring  its 
love  before  her  as  he  had,  ever  since  that  far-off  pic- 
nic day  that  now  danced  before  him  in  its  shroud. 

A  sense  of  hardness  toward  God  comes  over  him. 
Still  walking,  his  eyes  fall  on  his  half-written  sermon 
on  the  desk.  He  picks  it  up — how  different  life  was 
when  I  wrote  those  words,  he  murmured.  Then  he 
reads  the  text.  "  Others  were  tortured,  not  accept- 
ing deliverance,  that  they  might  obtain  a  better  res- 
urrection." 

He  tears  the  sheets  in  two,  flinging  them  into  the 


The  GRIP  of  'The   UNDERTOW 

basket  at  his  side.  Then  he  seems  to  relent.  Yet 
why  has  this  befallen  him,  if  God  is  just  ?  The  old 
instinct  for  prayer  returns. 

"  Oh,  God,"  he  mumbles,  bending  above  a  couch, 
"  why  hast  Thou  dealt  thus  with  me  ?  Thy  ways  are 
mysterious  indeed.  Can  it  be  that  whom  Thou  lov- 
est  Thou  chastenest — oh,  God,  have  mercy  on  her." 

Rising,  he  turns  to  the  basket  and  picks  up  the 
scattered  sheets  of  his  discourse,  searching  for  a  par- 
agraph he  could  vaguely  remember  writing.  Here 
it  is: 

"  The  Heavenly  Gardener  knows  best,  my  breth- 
ren, which  plants  to  put  in  the  sunshine,  and  which 
within  the  shade ;  for  some  flower  best  in  the  sun- 
shine, but  others  amid  darksome  shadows.  There- 
fore accept  sorrow  with  reverent  curiosity,  even  with 
subdued  and  submissive  joy." 

He  pondered  long  upon  the  words ;  this  must  be 
the  purpose  of  this  mysterious  dispensation — he 
could  conceive  no  other  explanation.  Yet,  as  he 
pondered,  the  malproportion  of  it  grew  upon  him  till 
his  spirit  was  aflame  again.  While  he  was  musing 
the  fire  burned ;  for  his  musing  was  of  the  final  and 
irreparable  nature  of  his  sorrow.  This  consoling 
sentiment  may  last  a  week ;  this  sorrow  for  a  lifetime. 
This  is  not  a  tunnel,  he  muses,  with  healing  light  be- 
yond ;  but  a  tomb,  where  his  dead  hopes  and  he  must 
lie  together. 

A  rap  at  the  door  suddenly  interrupted  him. 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Wishart,  there's  a  couple  of 
people  wants  to  see  you,"  his  landlady  announced. 


308  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  The  man  said  as  it  was  your  brother  and  Miss  Bur- 
nett. Will  you  see  them  in  the  parlour,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,"  Stephen  answered,  "  I'll  be  obliged  if  you'll 
show  them  up  here." 

He  struggled  for  the  control  he  knew  he  would  re- 
quire ;  and  the  face  that  greeted  Reuben  and  Bessie 
was  full  of  tranquil  welcome. 

"  Why,  Rube,  is  this  you  ?  and  you,  too,  Bessie  ? — 
don't  know  which  I'm  gladdest  to  see.  Come  away 
in ;  this  is  a  pleasant  surprise." 

Entering,  all  three  took  their  seats,  the  visitors  evi- 
dently restless  and  embarrassed. 

"  What  makes  you  so  serious,  Rube  ? "  Stephen 
felt  constrained  to  ask  after  a  brief  and  solemn  silence. 
"  You  look  as  if  you'd  lost  your  best  friend.  Noth- 
ing the  matter  at  the  farm,  I  hope  ?  " 

Reuben's  eyes  were  still  upon  the  ground. 

"  Tell  him,  Reuben,"  Bessie  faltered. 

Then  the  earnest  eyes  lifted  themselves  to  Ste- 
phen's face,  and  Reuben's  lips  began  to  slowly  frame 
the  words : 

"  Well,  Steve,  I  did  have  something  to  tell  you. 
Bessie  and  I  came  up  to  the  city  to  do  a  little — a  little 
shopping,"  Reuben  flushing  shyly  as  he  spoke,  "  and 
I  honestly  thought  I  ought  to  tell  you  what  she  told 
me.  It's  more  than  hard  to  do  it,  Steve — it  seems 
cruel — but  I  do  it  because  I  love  you,  and " 

"  What  can  you  mean,  Rube  ?  Don't  keep  me  in 
suspense.  Anything  about  money  matters?"  and 
Stephen's  voice  betrays  that  he  has  had  burden 
enough  already. 


The  GRIP  of  The   UNDERTOW    309 

"  No,  Steve,  I  wish  it  was ;  no,  it's  about — it's  about 
Hattie,  Steve.  About  something  Bessie  saw;  she 
happened  to  be  in  that  sugar-bush  last  Wednesday 
night,  just  about  dark,  and  she  saw  Hattie — and  she 
was  talking  to — to " 

"  To  whom,"  Stephen  urged,  leaning  over,  "  to 
whom  was  Hattie  talking  ?  " 

"  To  Hiram,  Steve ;  to  Hiram  Barker,"  and  even 
Reuben  started  as  he  saw  the  pallor  of  death  fling  its 
sheet  over  Stephen's  face. 

Bessie  sat,  shaking  like  a  leaf,  while  Reuben's  voice, 
hoarsely  whispering,  told  his  tale  as  gently  and  hope- 
fully as  he  could,  the  strong  lips  quivering  with  love 
and  sympathy  as  he  watched  his  brother's  anguish. 

It  was  soon  over :  "  But  about  that  last  thing, 
Steve,  Bessie  says  Hattie  was  trying  to  resist.  I  don't 
blame  Hattie  at  all,  Steve.  And  oh,  Steve,  it's  hard 
to  tell  you ;  but  I  think  you  ought  to  get  her  home 
at  once.  And  then  I  thought  you  could  protect  her 
for  the  future.  Don't  let  her  ever  meet  that  man 
again  ;  I  know  Hiram  hates  you,  and  I  believe  he'd 
like  to  wreck  your  life  if  he  could,  Steve." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  Stephen's  face  working 
in  a  slight  movement  as  he  looked  far  out  of  the 
window.  Grief,  and  pride,  were  both  visible  there. 
In  a  moment  he  stepped  to  his  desk,  thrust  a  couple 
of  letters  within  it  and  turned  the  key. 

"  You  don't  mistrust  my  wife  ?  "  he  asked  in  a 
rather  trembling  voice  as  he  turned  about.  "  Hat- 
tie's  all  right,  you  know,"  he  said,  looking  appealingly 
at  Reuben. 


3io  THE   UNDERTOW 

"  You're  right  she  is,"  and  Reuben's  voice  is  shak 
ing  more  than  Stephen's.    "  Good  for  you,  Steve ; 
it's  because  she's  all  right  that  I  wanted  you  to  save 
her.     Why,  Bessie,  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  have  to  go,  Rube — I've  got  an  engagement  at 
the  dressmaker's.  Please  don't  ask  me  to  stay ; 
Steve'll  want  to  see  you  alone,"  and  as  she  reached 
the  door,  she  cast  backward  at  the  broken  man  a 
glance  that  was  full  of  pity  and  noble  yearning  and 
sincerity  of  friendship,  such  as  had  not  been  there 
for  years. 

As  Reuben  returned  from  seeing  her  to  the  door, 
he  saw  his  brother  sitting  where  he  had  left  him,  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands ;  but  now  his  breast  is  heav- 
ing heavily,  his  whole  frame  quivering  with  his  lonely 
grief,  while  the  tears  crept  slowly  down,  visible  be- 
tween the  parted  fingers. 

Stooping  with  almost  a  woman's  tenderness, 
Reuben  laid  his  arms  about  his  brother,  caressing 
him  in  the  strong  gentleness  of  his  heart.  No  word 
he  spoke,  lingering  thus  till  the  gust  of  grief  was 
past.  Then  they  sat  long  together,  talking  of  many 
things. 

"  Steve,"  Reuben  said  at  length, "  I've  got  to  go — 
but  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  something  else. 
It's  something  that's  been  bothering  me  a  good  deal 
— and  it's  about  you,  old  fellow." 

"  About  me  ?  "  Stephen  responded  wearily.  "  What 
have  you  been  hearing  about  me  ?  "  His  voice  was 
unnaturally  calm.  For  his  thought  was  otherwhere, 
busy  with  those  letters  in  his  desk  of  which  Reuben 


The  GRIP  of  The   UNDERTOW    311 

knew  nothing  ;  making  up  the  dread  account  of  evi- 
dence, the  letters  and  the  news  that  Reuben  brought, 
each  one  such  a  dreadful  confirmation  of  the  other. 

"  Well,  Steve,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  straight. 
They  say  it's  rumoured  all  around  the  city — and  we've 
heard  it  even  where  we  live — that  you're  in  debt. 
And,  of  course,  Steve,  it's  bound  to  do  you  a  lot  of 
harm ;  it  is  doing  you  harm — and  I'm  so  afraid  father 
might  hear  of  it,  and  it  would  finish  him,  I  know." 

"  Father  doesn't  know  anything  about  it,  then, 
does  he?"  Stephen  interrupted  earnestly. 

"  Not  a  thing  ;  he  thinks  you're  the  pride  of 
Hamilton.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  came  for,  Steve. 
I  want  to  help  you,  and  if  I  only  knew  how " 

"  Oh,  Rube,"  and  the  moisture  is  gathering  in 
Stephen's  eyes,  "  I  wish  to  God  I  were  worthy  of 
you — I'll  tell  you  who  my  creditors  are,  Rube,  and 
how  much  I  owe — and  everything.  Hiram,  of 
course " 

But  Reuben  stopped  him  imperiously.  "  I  won't 
have  it,  Steve,  I  won't  have  it ;  it's  no  business  of 
mine  who  your  creditors  are — I  knew  you  owed 
Hiram.  But  all  I  want  to  know  is  how  much  it  is. 
I'm  going  to  pay  it,  Steve." 

The  giant-framed,  giant-hearted  brother  sat  look- 
ing shyly  about  the  room,  now  and  then  turning  his 
kindly  eyes  full  on  his  unhappy  brother. 

Distracted  the  latter  was  in  very  truth,  as  the 
thought  of  all  Reuben  had  been  to  him,  all  he  still 
wished  to  be,  passed  before  him.  And  his  requital ! 

"  But  Rube,  you  know — you  know  I've  never  paid 


THE    UNDERTOW 

back  that  money  father  got  from  Scotland.  And 
I've  no  claim  on  the  farm  or  any  of  its  product — my 
share  on  the  farm  went  for  my  education ;  and  a  sad 
lot  of  digging  and  delving  you  and  poor  father  had 
to  do  to  finish  it.  Oh,  Rube,  I  can't — I  can't  take 
money  from  you,  Rube." 

Reuben's  face  is  grave.  "  Now  look  here,  Steve, 
you  don't  want  to  hurt  me,  do  you  ?  Now  don't, 
don't,  old  fellow.  I'm  so  happy  every  other  way — 
no  man  ever  was  so  happy ;  and  it'll  spoil  everything 
for  me  and  Bessie  if  you  won't  let  us  help.  You'll 
take  it  for  Bessie's  sake,  Steve — and  mine,  too.  Now 
tell  me — don't  say  anything,  only  just  tell  me  how 
much  it  is,  how  much  will  make  you  all  clear." 

Stephen  was  bended  over  in  his  chair,  his  face 
hidden.  Reuben's  heavy  hand,  light  as  a  woman's 
now,  went  forth  to  his  shoulder. 

"  Tell  me,  Steve ;  I've  got  the  money  right  in  my 
pocket." 

Silence  reigns  a  while  ;  then  Stephen  lifts  his  worn 
face  and  his  eyes  fall  on  his  brother  with  a  glow  of 
fondness  Reuben  had  never  seen  before.  "  I  owe 
twenty-seven  hundred  dollars  altogether,"  he  said  in 
a  low  despairing  voice. 

Reuben's  hand  is  already  in  the  breast  pocket  of 
his  coat,  no  sign  of  hesitation  or  even  of  surprise  ap- 
pearing. 

"  I've  got  more  than  that,"  he  said  calmly,  "  I  got 
it  that  night  I  went  to  meet  the  man  from  Cleveland 
— the  night  you  walked  home  with  Bessie,  you  re- 
member." He  is  opening  the  wallet  carefully,  and 


The  GRIP  of  The   UNDERTOW    313 

does  not  see  the  ashy  wave  that  drifts  across  his 
brother's  face,  knows  nothing  of  the  wild  outcry  in 
the  hunted  heart  beside  him. 

"  Shut  that  window,  Steve — draughts  are  danger- 
ous when  you're  counting  bills,"  and  he  smiled  to 
relieve  the  embarrassment  he  feared  his  brother  felt. 
"  Yes,  I  got  it  that  night;  and  that  was  only  for  one 
of  the  wells,  for  an  interest  in  one.  And  I  drew  the 
whole  amount  to-day,  so  I'd  be  sure  to  have  enough. 
.  .  .  I  think  that's  right,  Steve — you  count  it 
and  see." 

Reuben  rose  after  a  few  minutes,  picking  up  his 
hat  and  moving  toward  the  door. 

"  Hold  on,  Reuben,  hold  on — I've  just  finished. 
Rube,  you've  make  a  mistake — there's  three  thousand 
here.  Rube,  hold  on,  I  say,  Rube !  " 

But  he  hears  the  door  opening  below  and  a  joyful 
voice  calls  up : 

"  You  never  were  any  good  at  arithmetic,  Steve- 
good-bye." 


XXV 
ASHES   On    The   HEARTH 

THE  evening  was  spent  in  torpor.  A  hasty 
note — with  its  glad  enclosure — hurriedly 
despatched  to  his  arch-creditor  ;  a  brief  and 
portentous  telegram  bidding  his  wife  return  at  once, 
were  all  that  broke  the  drear  monotony.  The  night 
was  passed  in  bitter  musings,  falling  now  and  then 
into  troubled  slumber,  waking  in  feverish  agitation. 
Broken  by  the  night,  the  morning  found  him  less  able 
to  resist  the  torment.  The  sense  of  wrong  that  had 
been  done  him  returned  with  greater  vividness  than 
before.  He  sought  feebly  to  resist  the  bitterness  that 
kept  gathering  in  his  heart — but  in  vain. 

Hattie's  train  was  due  in  a  couple  of  hours,  and 
Stephen  gave  himself  anew  to  the  accursed  letters. 
Their  very  touch  wrung  him  with  an  increasing  pain ; 
but  their  cruel  fascination  seemed  to  grow. 

He  is  sitting,  wondering  how  he  shall  begin  with 
Hattie,  when  a  servant  announces  that  Father 
O'Rourke  has  called ;  and  a  moment  later  the  well- 
loved  priest  is  sitting  at  his  side. 

But  his  demeanour  is  marked  by  a  seriousness  Ste- 
phen has  never  previously  observed.  Without  pre- 
liminary, he  drew  his  chair  close  to  the  minister's. 

"  I've  got  bad  news  for  you,  my  boy.  It's  about 
one  of  my  parishioners — he  means  mischief  for  you. 


ASHES   On    The    HEARTH          315 

It's  Hiram  Barker ;  he's  entered  suit  against  you,  and 
it's  going  to  go  hard,  I'm  afraid.  And  I  want  to  see 
if  I  can't  help  you." 

Then  the  priest  went  into  details,  telling  of  Hi- 
ram's evident  purpose  to  ruin  him.  "  It's  a  gambling 
debt,  he  says — gambling  in  stocks.  And  he  seems 
delighted  to  death  about  it.  Now  I  haven't  got 
much — I'm  only  a  poor  priest — but  you  can  have  it 
all.  Only  Barker  must  never  know  it,  mind.  And 
sure,  you  can  borrow  the  rest,"  he  urged. 

Forgetting  for  the  moment  all  other  troubles,  Ste- 
phen joyfully  informed  his  friend  of  what  had  hap- 
pened ;  of  Reuben's  visit,  of  his  generous  gift,  of  the 
letter  that  had  been  sent  to  Hiram  paying  his  claim 
in  full. 

"  Howly  Moses,"  cried  the  delighted  priest,  "  why 
the  divil  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before  ?  That's  a 
darlint  av  a  brother  you've  got ;  give  him  an  owld 
priest's  benediction  and  tell  him  I'll  dance  at  his  wed- 
din'  and  cry  at  his  wake.  And  I'll  kiss  his  broide  for 
him,  begorra — and  drink  both  their  hilths  wid  a  wee 
drap  o'  the  cratur  into  the  bargain.  Now  I'll  have  to 
run  away.  Good-bye  and  God  bless  you,  my  boy." 
And  the  loving-hearted  priest  went  on  his  way  re- 
joicing. 

The  trembling  hours  have  passed  and  Stephen  is 
waiting  for  his  wife.  As  he  hears  the  thunder  of  the 
approaching  train  he  tries  in  vain  to  control  himself. 
His  hand  is  shaking  violently  as  he  holds  it  to  his 
eyes,  scanning  the  faces  of  the  alighting  passengers. 

There  she  is  now,  tripping  merrily  along  the  plat- 


316  THE    UNDERTOW 

form,  glancing  this  way  and  that  with  eager  eyes ; 
and  Stephen  marvels  as  he  notes  the  unconscious  air, 
strangely  foreign  to  all  that  has  been  so  bitterly  re- 
vealed. In  a  moment  her  gaze  falls  on  her  husband, 
and  with  a  quick  cry  of  joy  she  runs  impulsively 
toward  him.  Her  hands  are  full  of  little  parcels,  del- 
icacies from  the  farm  with  which  kind  hands  have 
laden  her,  so  she  can  but  turn  her  lips  up  to  his  face, 
waiting  to  be  kissed. 

Stephen's  cold  and  repellent  gaze  meets  her  loving 
eyes,  and  he  turns  his  cheek  to  her,  which  the  fra- 
grant lips,  pallid  now,  touch  in  quivering  wonder. 

"  Stephen  darling,  what's  the  matter  ? "  she  mur- 
mured, glancing  quickly  around  at  the  hurrying 
throng  ;  "  what  makes  you  look  that  way,  Stephen  ?  " 
the  wondering  eyes  looking  out  through  gathering 
mist. 

Stephen  was  silent,  looking  sternly  down  at  her. 
"  I  guess  you  know,"  he  said  meaningly ;  "  let  us  go 
home." 

Hattie's  cry  of  protest  and  amazement  was  stifled 
as  they  hurried  toward  a  cab,  which  they  entered  as 
Stephen  said  : — "  Don't  speak  to  me  now ;  let  us  have 
silence  till  we  get  home." 

Dread  is  the  hour  when  husband  and  wife  stand 
alone  and  look  into  each  other's  faces,  the  one  on 
trial  for  life's  honour,  both  on  trial  for  life  itself.  Cru- 
elty and  piteous  appeal,  bitter  censure  and  wistful 
pleading,  angry  strength  and  crying  helplessness  ;  all 
these  belong  to  that  grim  tribunal.  And  happiness, 


ASHES   On    rhe    HEARTH          317 

girded  and  sandaled,  staff  in  hand,  bids  her  old-time 
friends  look  their  last  on  her  departing  face. 

All  of  these  were  gathered  together ;  and  fear  was 
there,  and  love,  pleading  that  the  past  be  called  in 
witness  ;  and  faith,  wounded,  but  struggling  hard  to 
speak ;  and  hope,  most  pitiful  of  all,  fighting  for  her 
life,  crying  for  the  portion  she  would  not  be  denied. 
Like  wandered  things  on  some  bleak  hillside,  these 
latter  two  withstood  as  best  they  could  the  cruel 
storm,  shuddering  now  and  then  before  its  lightning, 
huddling  together  in  the  pelting  rain. 

The  violence  of  it  all  is  partly  spent,  Stephen 
standing  apart,  the  fierce  flow  of  utterance  checked 
for  a  moment,  the  fatal  letters  crumpled  in  his  hand. 
Hattie  is  trying  pitifully  to  come  nearer  to  him,  stretch- 
ing out  her  hands  in  pleading. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  forgive  me  if  I  have  done  wrong. 
I  didn't  mean  to — God  knows  I  didn't  mean  to.  I 
have  explained  what  that  letter  meant ;  surely,  I  have 
explained  it,  Stephen.  And — about  the  other — 
about — the  woods,  he  did,  he  did  do  what  you  say. 
But  I  couldn't  help  him — and  I  thought  of  you  at 
once,  darling;  I  was  thinking  all  the  time  of  those 
other  woods,  that  picnic  day — and  I  never  loved  you 
more  than  then." 

He  flung  some  word  of  contempt  concerning  her 
explanations. 

"  If  I  had  acted  as  you  have  acted,"  he  said,  the 
sense  of  injury  growing  on  him  as  he  spoke,  "  I 
would  tell  the  very  same  story  that  you  tell — any  one 


318  THE    UNDERTOW 

who  would  do  the  one  would  do  the  other.  And 
why  shouldn't  they?  " 

He  looked  keenly  at  her  a  moment,  then  thrust  a 
fierce  question  from  which  she  recoiled  as  though  she 
had  been  struck. 

"  You  can  answer  or  not,  just  as  you  please,"  he 
cried  hotly ;  "  I  can't  force  your  answer.  I  suppose 
I'll  go  to  my  grave  with  this  cloud  of  doubt  about 
me,"  he  went  on  bitterly,  "  but  there's  one  thing  I'll 
tell  you — I'd  sooner  be  in  my  place  than  yours.  I'd 
sooner  have  my  anguish,  and  have  a  clear  conscience 
than  have  the  remorse  you'll  have  to  feel.  If  I  have 
to  suffer,  it's  not  for  my  sin  I'm  suffering — and  I  can 
bear  it,"  he  exclaimed,  walking  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,"  she  moaned,"  even  if  I  had — even 
if  I  had  done  wrong  ;  and  perhaps  I  did — but  I  didn't 
mean  to.  But  even  if  I  had,  Stephen,  couldn't  you 
forgive  me  ?  Haven't  you  ever  done  any  wrong  too, 
Stephen — not  now  or  nearly  now — but  somewhere, 
perhaps,  sometime,  can't  you  remember  feeling  that 
we  are  all  liable  to  do  wrong  sometimes — look, 
Stephen,  look." 

She  had  been  fumbling  in  a  little  bag ;  and  now 
she  holds  in  her  hand,  smoothing  it  tenderly  upon 
her  lap,  a  tiny  garment,  the  bodkin  still  entangled 
where  she  had  left  it — one  of  those  unstained  gar- 
ments, holy  with  the  fragrance  of  new-born  reverence 
and  love,  a  secret  that  only  God,  and  the  mother  heart, 
and  the  oncoming  pilgrim,  are  privileged  to  share. 

"  See,  Stephen,  see,"  she  sobbed,  while  the  tears 


ASHES   On    The    HEARTH          319 

fell  fast ;  "  this  is  what  I  was  working  on  when 
I  was  in  the  country.  And  I  was  so  happy — 
oh,  darling,  I  was  so  happy,"  she  cried,  clasping 
it  to  the  hungry  bosom  in  a  passion  of  tears; 
"  and  I  sang  over  it,  and  prayed  over  it — and  your 
face  was  before  me  all  the  time — I  kept  thinking  of 
you,  Stephen,  all  the  time.  I  did  it  on  purpose, 
Stephen,  because — because — I  was  your  wife;  and 
because  I  wanted,  I  wanted  it  to — oh,  Stephen,  you 
know  what  I  wanted."  And  the  sweet  face,  suffused 
with  tears,  pleading  with  pitiful  entreaty,  is  turned 
upward  as  the  trembling  girl  rises  quickly  to  her  feet. 
Still  holding  the  dainty  fabric,  her  hands  outstretched, 
she  tries  again  to  come  to  him.  But  he  moves  aside 
and  resolutely  draws  his  chair  up  to  the  desk. 

"  Don't,  Hattie,  don't,"  he  said  sternly,  a  wave  of 
tenderness  sweeping  across  his  face  ;  "  don't  make  it 
harder  for  us  both.  This  only  adds  to  the  curse  that 
must  blight  our  lives  ;  another  will  have  to  share  it 
with  us,  the  innocent  suffering  for  the  guilty." 

Then  the  poor  broken  thing  crept  away  into  the 
shadow  that  seemed  to  hem  her  in  on  every  hand. 

In  a  numb  and  lifeless  way  he  gave  himself  through 
the  day  to  the  work  in  which  he  was  to  find  his  solace. 
Once  or  twice  the  impulse  seized  him  to  take  her 
again  to  his  heart,  to  forgive  all  the  wrong  that  she 
had  done  him,  to  bow  with  her  in  prayer,  and  begin 
all  over  again  the  life  that  had  till  yesterday  promised 
so  much  of  happiness  to  them  both.  But  the  old 
maddening  sense  of  injury  returned  with  augmented 
force ;  and  he  felt  that  the  only  just  course  before 


320  THE    UNDERTOW 

God  and  man  was  that  their  lives,  even  if  spent  to- 
gether, must  henceforth  be  lived  apart. 

Once  he  arose  and  went  into  the  room  where  she 
lay  flung  upon  the  bed,  his  purpose  fruitless  though 
it  was,  to  insist  on  her  going  down  to  the  belated 
meal  that  was  waiting  for  them  both.  The  sun  was 
setting,  the  long  day  nearly  past. 

"  Stephen,"  she  murmured  faintly,  her  face  almost 
hidden  on  the  pillow,  "  aren't  you  going  to  let  me 
stay  with  you,  Stephen  ?  " 

A  long  silence.  "  Yes,  I'm  going  to.  We  must 
carry  our  secret  in  our  hearts."  Then  he  went  out. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  a  faint  voice  called  him. 

"  Stephen,  Stephen  dear." 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  answered,  holding  the  door 
partly  open. 

"  It's  dark,  Stephen — aren't  you  coming  ?  It's  so 
dark,  and  I'm  all  alone — and  afraid.  Come,  Stephen." 

She  hears  him  sigh,  but  the  door  is  closed. 

Another  hour  goes  by  on  lagging  feet  and  the 
same  trembling  voice  is  heard. 

"  Stephen,  oh,  Stephen." 

"  What  is  it,  Hattie  ?  "  the  door  slightly  opened 
again. 

"  Won't  you  say  good-night  to  me,  Stephen  ?  I 
can't  sleep.  Stephen,  won't  you  have  a  little  prayer 
with  me  ?  It  might  help  us,  dear.  I'm  so  lonely." 

"  Good-night,"  and  his  voice  is  trembling  ;  "  I  have 
prayed  ;  we  can  pray  apart — apart,  like  other  things 
have  been." 

Then  he  closes  the  door  again  gently,  wondering  at 


ASHES   On    The   HEARTH          321 

the  madness  that  stalls  in  his  brain  at  the  sound  of 
the  distant  sobbing.  For  life  hath  no  tragedy  and 
torture  like  love,  at  anger's  bidding,  playing  the  alien 
part  of  hate. 

By  and  by  he  falls  into  a  restless  sleep.  Suddenly 
he  awakes,  helpless  before  the  storm  that  has  taken 
advantage  of  his  slumber,  brewing  in  the  silent  dark. 
The  clock  strikes  two,  lingering  heavily  on  the 
strokes.  He  arises,  groping  through  the  gloom, 
fumbling  for  the  door.  She  is  on  her  elbow,  her  sleep- 
less eyes  fixed  upon  the  opening  door,  her  heart  wild 
with  the  uncertainty  of  what  it  means. 

He  stood  at  the  threshold,  his  eyes  blazing  in  the 
dark,  his  parched  lips  hurling  the  delirious  words  that 
he  had  kept  at  bay  during  the  waking  hours,  but 
which  had  crept  to  his  tongue  while  he  slept,  the  very 
dew  of  the  darkness  that  brooded  in  his  heart. 

Then  he  closed  the  door,  retracing  his  steps  to  the 
couch  from  which  he  rose.  His  anguish  is  com- 
plete ;  the  corpse  of  joy,  he  knows,  is  bedfellow  to 
them  both.  And  the  deathlike  sleep  that  so  often 
waits  on  anguish  takes  him  to  her  bo'som,  as  the  ocean 
takes  the  hammocked  shroud. 

There  came  to  him  but  one  dream,  passing  before 
him  in  ghostly  silence ;  he  thought  that  the  old  pure 
lips,  purer  than  they  had  ever  been,  gently  touched 
his  brow,  hot  and  throbbing  with  some  nameless  pain. 

Like  that  billowy  sepulchre  whose  restless  host 
shall  be  one  day  reclaimed,  the  most  unfathomed  sleep 
gives  up  her  dead.  From  which  the  next  morning 


322  THE    UNDERTOW 

Stephen  emerged,  dazed  and  wandering,  recalling 
one  by  one  the  happenings  of  the  day  before. 

Rising,  he  stumbled  heavily  toward  his  chair,  tak- 
ing his  place  mechanically  at  his  desk.  His  eyes  re- 
turned again  and  again  to  the  still  closed  door;  it 
reminded  him  of  that  door  in  the  distant  farmhouse, 
toward  which  his  father's  gaze  was  cast  while  one  lay 
within,  amid  the  pomp  of  the  unbroken  stillness. 

In  a  moment  he  arose  and  went  over  to  it,  listen- 
ing ;  but  no  sound  meets  his  ear.  She  is  sleeping, 
he  conjectured — but  he  could  hear  no  heavy  breath 
of  slumber.  Returning  to  his  desk,  his  eye  fell  upon 
a  stray  piece  of  paper  with  a  strange  straggling  hand- 
writing on  it.  Uneven,  spreading  letters,  who  could 
have  written  them  ?  One  glance  more,  and  a  loud 
cry  escaped  him  as  he  rose  and  rushed  toward  the 
room.  The  door  was  flung  open,  and  the  fevered 
searcher  stopped  not  till  he  was  standing  right  above 
the  pillow,  though  his  first  glance  told  him  the  truth 
he  dreaded  ;  for  the  room  was  empty. 

Still  standing  above  the  crumpled  pillow,  turned 
and  overturned  as  it  had  been  in  the  long  misery  of 
the  night,  he  finished  the  letter  whose  opening 
sentence  had  started  the  fear  that  was  now  so  bitterly 
confirmed. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,"  it  ran,  "  I  want  you  to  forgive  me 
— but  I'm  going  away.  I'll  be  gone  when  you  get 
this,  and  I  know  you'll  be  happier  without  me — after 
what  you  said.  And  Stephen,  my  darling,  I  can't  do 
anything  else;  you  were  all  I  had  in  Hamilton  ;  now 
my  heart  is  broken  and  I  could  welcome  nothing  so 


ASHES   On    The   HEARTH          323 

much  as  death.  But  I  love  you,  Stephen,  I  love  you, 
and  I  shall  always  love  you,  and  I'll  always  be  your 
wife  and  will  always  be  true  to  you.  And  I  always 
have  been,  dear,  always  have  been  true  to  you,  though 
I  can't  blame  you  so  much  for  thinking  what  you  do ; 
for  everything  looks  so  strange.  I'm  writing  this  in 
the  dark,  and  it  will  look  strange  too,  but  you  will  be 
able  to  read  it  when  it  gets  light.  And  I  shall  always 
pray  for  you,  Stephen,  always,  always,  that  God  will 
bless  you,  and  make  you  happy  again,  and  make  it 
all  up  to  us  both  for  what  we've  suffered — and  per- 
haps He'll  give  us  back  to  each  other  in  heaven. 
Good-bye,  Stephen,  I'm  going  away  for  your  sake. 
"  Your  own  broken-hearted 

"  HATTIE." 

He  started  blindly  to  the  door,  looking  pitifully  up 
and  down  the  street  as  though  he  would  discover  the 
way  she  took.  But  the  awakening  tides  of  traffic 
were  flowing  indifferently  on,  and  he  went  back  to 
the  silent  rooms,  locking  the  door  upon  his  anguish. 

"  Oh,  God,  why  hast  Thou  dealt  thus  with  me  ? 
Pity  me — and  bring  her  back,"  he  moaned  beside  the 
deserted  bed 


XXVI 
The    BREAKING    of    The    DAY 

WHAT  power  it  was  that  held  him  to  his 
work  for  two  long  sorrow  riven  weeks, 
Stephen  himself  could  not  have  told. 
Once  and  again  he  started,  blindly  plunging,  striving 
pathetically  to  discover  some  inkling  of  the  direction 
Hattie's  flight  had  taken,  all  the  while  compelled  to 
explain  her  absence  as  naturally  as  he  could  to  en- 
quiring friends.  His  sense  of  duty  to  his  Church, 
his  wounded  pride,  his  purpose"  of  intenser  toil,  had 
thus  long  held  him  to  his  post. 

Not  like  the  Stephen  Wishart  of  noble  carriage 
and  springing  step  was  the  sad-visaged  man  whom 
the  strollers  noticed  one  placid  evening  as  he  slowly 
pressed  toward  the  secluding  shade  of  a  familiar  park. 

Though  the  passers-by  could  hardly  fail  to  note 
the  weight  of  care  that  clouded  the  handsome, 
thoughtful  face,  they  could  not  know  the  agony  of 
tumult  that  raged  within.  For  Stephen's  thought 
was  of  his  absent  wife,  and  strangely  varied  was  its 
strain.  But  the  great  opportunity  that  comes  alone 
with  anguish  was  ripening  no  harvest  in  Stephen 
Wishart's  soul,  except  the  baneful  fruitage  of  self- 
pity  and  half-embittered  wrath. 

The  shadows  were  deepening  about  the  spacious 
324 


The   BREAKING   of    The    DAY     325 

square  as  Stephen  took  his  seat  under  a  far-spreading 
tree,  his  heart  full  of  yearning  for  his  vanished  wife, 
tossed  and  torn  in  its  loneliness. 

He  noted  the  figure  of  a  man  who  took  his  seat 
not  far  from  him,  apparently  watching  him  closely ; 
but  soon  he  dismissed  all  thought  of  the  stranger 
from  his  mind,  occupied  as  it  was  with  the  medita- 
tions that  now  absorbed  him  night  and  day. 

Suddenly  he  leaped  from  his  seat,  startled  by  a 
voice  that  was  like  to  freeze  his  heart  within  him. 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Wishart ;  enjoying  the  air  ? 
You  seem  to  have  plenty  to  think  about." 

It  was  Hiram.  And  Stephen,  intent  only  on  mak- 
ing distance  between  them,  seized  the  hat  he  had 
thrown  on  the  grass  and  started  toward  a  distant  light 
that  marked  the  entrance  to  the  park. 

"  Wishart,  come  back — come  back,  I  say.  I've  got 
something  to  tell  you." 

Whether  it  was  the  imperiousness  of  the  man's 
voice,  or  the  strange  fascination  of  what  is  most 
painful  and  repellent,  Stephen  himself  was  probably 
not  aware.  But  he  halted,  then  stood  still,  and  finally, 
retracing  his  steps,  came  back  and  stood  before  his 
destroyer. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  huskily ;  "  I  should  think 
you'd  let  me  alone  now,  after  wrecking  my  life  as  you 
have." 

«'  Sit  down,  Steve,  sit  down — I  want  to  speak  to 
you.  I've  not  wrecked  your  life,  my  boy ;  you  did 
that  yourself." 

"  Don't  probe  wounds,"  he  cried,  and  the  other 


326  THE    UNDERTOW 

started  a  little  at  the  anguish  in  his  voice ;  "  I'm 
going  away — let  me  go ;  I've  got  enough  to  bear." 

But  yet  he  did  not  move,  standing  as  if  rooted  to 
the  ground,  gazing  into  his  enemy's  face. 

"  Why  didn't  you  keep  her  when  you  had  her  ? 
What  made  you  let  her  go?"  Hiram's  voice  is  low 
and  cruel. 

"  You  know,"  the  answer  coming  heavily. 

"  Yes,  I  know — I  know  what  you  thought  was  the 
reason  ;  it  was  that  letter,  wasn't  it  ?  Well  Steve, 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  something — that's  what  I  fol- 
lowed you  in  here  for.  I  guess  I've  got  you,  Steve. 
Do  you  remember  that  morning  in  the  barnyard  at 
the  old  farm  ?  You  remember  my  wish  for  you, 
don't  you,  that  you  should  go  on  into  the  ministry 
without  the  grace  of  God  ?  That  was  all  the  revenge 
I  wanted,  for  what  you  did  for  me.  And  I  got  it  all 
right,"  he  cried,  moving  in  his  seat,  the  old  fierce 
light  blazing  from  his  eyes,  "  I  got  it,  by  God.  You 
went  on,  and  you  thought  I'd  forgotten,  and  God  had 
dropped  the  thing — and  everything  was  lovely — till 
the  clock  struck ;  and  then  you  saw  I  wasn't  such  a 
fool  at  wishing  after  all." 

"  That's  a  matter  between  me  and  God — vengeance 
isn't  yours  ;  is  that  what  you  had  to  tell  me  ?  "  and 
Stephen's  pale  lips  were  trembling  as  he  spoke. 

"  No,  I've  got  something  else,  something  interest- 
ing— it's  about  that  letter ;  she  wrote  that  letter  to 
save  you,  that  scrap  I  sent  you — and  you  bit  at  it 
like  I  knew  you  would.  She  wrote  it  to  save  you, 
because  she  knew  I  could  crush  you  like  that  weed," 


The    BREAKING    of   The    DAY     327 

he  went  on,  stamping  his  heel  upon  the  ground  ; 
"  but  you  wouldn't  believe  her,  of  course — her  ex- 
planations were  no  good  to  you.  Anybody  with  an 
experience  as  irreproachable  as  yours  couldn't  im- 
agine such  a  thing  happening  innocently.  I've  often 
noticed  it's  the  fellows  that  need  forgiveness  most 
themselves,  who  can't  believe  anything  good  about 
anybody  else.  They  wonder  what  God's  doing  with 
His  time,  when  anybody  they're  interested  in  seems 
to  be  allowed  to  do  anything  that  hurts  them — some- 
body they're  not  worthy  to  touch  themselves.  Here, 
you  can  read  the  letter — the  part  you  didn't  see." 
Stephen  took  the  letter,  and,  as  he  strained  his  eyes 
to  read  it  in  the  failing  light,  as  he  saw  the  love  that 
pleaded  for  her  husband,  his  trembling  hand  could 
scarcely  hold  the  page,  his  face  blanched  and  white. 

"  I've  had  my  punishment," — Stephen's  voice  could 
be  scarcely  heard — "  but  this — but  this,"  he  moaned ; 
'*  oh,  God,  I  should  have  known  it  all  the  time.  Leave 
me.  Leave  me  to  myself  and  my  God." 

"  That's  what  I'm  going  to  do,  Wishart.  I'm  going 
away  where  you'll  never  see  me  again — but  it'll  al- 
ways make  me  glad  to  think  my  little  handiwork  is 
complete  and  will  be  bearing  fruit,  no  matter  how  far 
away  I  am.  You're  not  worthy  of  her,  Wishart; 
you  stung  her  into  madness,  and  God  never  made  a 
truer  heart  than  hers.  Go  home  now — home  with 
you,"  he  cried  in  a  rising  voice,  "  and  write  that  ser- 
mon on  your  sin  finding  you  out.  You  remember, 
don't  you,  I  asked  you  long  ago  to  take  that  text, 
that  morning  at  the  stable,  after  you  had  been  too 


328  THE   UNDERTOW 

smart  for  poor  Rube  the  night  before.  I've  been 
waiting  a  long  time  for  that  sermon.  Good-night, 
Mr.  Wishart,  minister  of  the  gospel  of  the  grace  of 
God ;  sweet  dreams  to  you." 

Dark  as  the  evening  shadows  that  had  fallen  round 
him  were  Stephen's  meditations  as  he  turned  his 
steps  toward  the  haunted  rooms  that  had  once  been 
called  their  home. 

A  familiar  voice,  rolling  now  in  the  cadence 
of  public  speech,  broke  in  upon  those  meditations. 
Looking  up,  he  found  himself  before  the  imposing 
portals  of  St.  Anne's  ;  and  the  voice,  he  knows  at 
once,  is  that  of  Father  O'Rourke,  rich  and  musical 
with  tides  of  feeling.  Almost  unconscious  of  his 
movement,  Stephen  turns  his  steps  within,  still  under 
the  spell  of  the  voice. 

Unnoticed,  he  steals  into  the  church.  Early  teach- 
ing and  prejudice  had  clothed  every  Catholic  church 
with  unholy  mystery  or  with  the  scarlet  robe  of  sin. 
But  he  had  no  sense  of  this  as  he  pressed  silently 
within  the  dimly  lighted  building,  beguiled  by  the 
heart-tones  of  a  man  whose  soul  he  felt  would 
shrive  a  heathen  temple,  flowing  pure  about  its 
walls. 

Taking  his  place  in  the  corner  of  the  crowded 
edifice,  his  eye  roved  over  the  assembled  worshippers. 
Rapt  and  earnest,  in  all  the  majesty  of  spiritual  need, 
their  faces  were  toward  the  preacher ;  theirs  faintly 
showing  in  the  semi-darkness,  his  illumined  by  the 
pulpit  light  that  burned  beside  him,  the  changing 
currents  clear  marked  as  they  ebbed  and  flowed  upon 


The    BREAKING   of   The    DAY     329 

it.  The  flickering  candles,  mingling  their  feeble 
lustre  with  the  dying  light  of  day,  played  upon  the 
upturned  countenances  of  the  congregation  as  upon 
a  single  face. 

The  old  were  there,  seeking  to  discern  the  evening 
star  that  should  replace  the  garish  light  so  nearly 
vanished ;  the  careworn,  some  with  the  pledges  of 
their  care  beside  them,  bowing  before  the  preacher's 
words  as  flowers  greet  descending  rain  ;  some  there 
were,  marked  with  the  scars  of  inward  conflict,  wait- 
ing for  the  terms  of  truce,  mayhap  of  final  peace ; 
some,  whose  eyes  were  glistening  through  darksome 
veils  of  widowhood ;  some,  sighing  heavily  as  their 
glances  fell  on  childish  forms  around  them  ;  some 
emaciated  and  pale,  and  some  stifling  the  suggestive 
cough,  their  faces  full  of  the  pathetic  peace  that  the 
secret  sentence  of  death  so  often  brings.  But  it 
seemed  to  Stephen,  as  he  gazed,  that  there  were  none 
but  needed  help,  some  openly  claiming  it  in  candid 
pleading,  some  needing  it  the  more  because  of  hidden 
wounds  whose  life-blood  the  sternest  armour  could 
not  hide. 

He  had  not  listened  long  before  all  others  were 
forgotten,  the  preacher's  message  transfixing  his  own 
soul.  It  is  of  Jacob,  Father  O'Rourke  is  preaching, 
of  his  mysterious  struggle  with  the  unseen  wrestler 
till  the  breaking  of  the  day. 

"  Why  then  was  Jacob  thus  held  back  ? "  the 
preacher  asked,  his  tender  glance  seeming  to  pene- 
trate to  every  heart,  "  when  on  the  very  eve  of  at- 
taining his  soul's  desire  ?  Why  was  he  thus  balked 


330  THE    UNDERTOW 

and  thwarted  ?  Listen,  it  was  for  this ;  Jacob  thought 
he  had  outwitted  the  Almighty.  Because  of  fraud, 
years  before,  he  had  been  exiled  from  the  land  he 
now  sought  to  reenter,  meeting  hostility  with  guile. 
And  Jacob  is  thus  arrested  that  he  may  learn  this 
wondrous  lesson,  a  lesson  some  of  us  may  be  learn- 
ing this  very  night,  that  our  sin  will  find  us  out ;  that 
we  can't  outrun  God ;  that  penitence  must  precede 
resistance ;  that  all  our  smartness  and  cunning,  how- 
ever they  may  deceive  and  outdo  our  neighbours, 
must  yet  be  pitted  against  a  Nameless  One,  outcom- 
ing  from  the  darkness  to  challenge  the  victory  we 
had  thought  complete.  How  many  a  sturdy  swim- 
mer, victorious  over  angry  waves,  panting  with  de- 
sire when  he  thinks  the  shore  is  won,  has  yet  felt  the 
awful  talons  of  the  undertow  seize  upon  him  like  a 
living  thing,  drawing  him  back  to  the  depths  of  dark- 
ness and  despair.  Esteem  no  shore  of  human  happi- 
ness as  fully  won  till  you  have  reckoned  with  that  un- 
dertow, which  teaches  men  their  need  of  God. 

"  Every  man  who  strives  to  prevail,  while  still  un- 
forgiven  of  his  sin,  must  learn  that  in  the  last  appeal 
the  struggle  is  with  God;  and  every  misfortune, 
every  disappointment,  every  strange  scourging  of  af- 
fairs that  seem  by  accident  to  thwart  and  baffle  us ; 
nay,  every  cruel  blow  from  unseen  hands,  every  shock 
of  sorrow,  every  bitter  enemy  who  lays  our  hopes 
and  lives  in  ashes,  all  these  are  but  the  varied  move- 
ments of  that  Antagonist  who  seems  to  have  forgot- 
ten, but  whose  shadowy  hand,  emerging  from  the 
darkness,  holds  us  back  when  our  feet  are  already 


The    BREAKING    of   The    DAY      331 

touching  the  long  sought  promised  land,  whatever  it 
may  be. 

"  And  oh,  my  brethren,"  the  priest  cried,  his  voice 
athrill  with  tenderness,  "  the  greatest  lesson  of  this 
ghostly  tournament  is  this — that  a  better  victory  may 
be  ours,  a  statelier  Eden  may  be  won.  For  it  was  thus 
with  Jacob,  when  struggle  turned  to  prayer,  when, 
recognizing  at  last  against  whom  he  fought,  he 
ceased  to  wrestle  and  began  to  pray,  the  voice  of 
anger  and  ambition  hushed  in  the  noble  threat :  « I 
will  not  let  thee  go  except  thou  bless  me.'  As 
blessed  he  was ;  never  the  same  again  ;  to  go  halting 
ever  after,  it  is  true,  but  walking  humbly  with  his 
God,  chastened  to  a  deeper  peace  than  the  joy  of 
triumph  ever  could  have  brought  him,  his  heart's 
deep  gratitude  now  to  be  evoked  at  thought  of  the 
great  overthrow  that  had  purified  the  stream  of  his 
desire  and  filled  his  life  with  blessing. 

"  And  many  a  man  has  lived  to  bless  the  hand 
that  smote  him,  even  to  thank  God  for  some  relent- 
less enemy,  when  he  has  come  to  see  that  this  very 
enemy  was  God's  minister  to  his  soul.  The  very 
man  who  has  blighted  his  darling  hopes,  or  laid  his 
hearth  in  ruins,  or  plunged  his  life  in  unrelieved 
eclipse,  is  recognized  as  but  the  messenger  of  that 
great  Power  who  hurls  us  back  from  happiness  that 
He  may  lead  us  forth  to  it  again  by  purer  paths  of 
sorrow,  who  robs  us  of  our  rapture  that  He  may  save 
our  souls." 

The  priest's  voice  had  fallen  to  the  low  tone  of  im- 


332  THE    UNDERTOW 

passioned  pleading ;  and  as  he  closed,  the  organ  in 
the  loft  above  poured  forth  some  vesper  melody,  the 
service  blending  with  it  according  to  the  Romish 
way.  But  Stephen  heard  it  not,  nor  paid  attention 
to  the  succeeding  ceremonies. 

For  the  hour  of  his  light  had  come  at  last ;  and 
his  soul  was  engaged  with  God,  doing  homage  in 
that  eternal  ritual  with  which  no  priest  can  interfere, 
before  which  cathedral  rites  are  put  to  shame. 

That  his  soul  has  been  trifling  with  the  Eternal, 
and  that  the  Eternal  has  been  in  earnest  with  his 
soul — these  two  mighty  truths  shine  out  from  all  the 
storm  of  years.  And  with  the  great  conviction  his 
refuge  of  lies  vanishes  like  the  mirage  of  the  desert ; 
all  his  dexterous  efforts  to  serve  God  and  mammon ; 
his  outward  zeal  and  his  secret  infirmity ;  his  mad 
attempt  to  foster  holy  love  and  unforgiving  sin  in  the 
selfsame  heart — all  pass  before  him  in  the  awful  can- 
dour of  reality.  His  soul  cries  aloud  for  mercy  as 
they  pass,  wrapped  in  unconscious  ecstasy  that  at 
last  it  has  given  up  its  dead. 

The  faces  of  his  fellow-worshippers  are  hardly  dis- 
tinguishable in  the  increasing  darkness,  their  eyes 
fastened  on  the  altar  lights  before  him.  Some  few, 
recognizing  him,  turn  curious  glances  where  he 
stands.  But  he  heeds  them  not,  nor  knows  that  any 
are  beside  him  save  alone  that  nameless  Wrestler 
whose  name  he  has  learned  at  last. 

That  this  is  a  Catholic  church,  branded  to  him 
from  infancy,  he  remembers  not.  For  it  has  become 
to  him  the  house  of  God,  the  very  gate  of  heaven,  as 


The    BREAKING    of   The    DAY     333 

his  lips  move  silently  in  the  first  true  luxury  of 
prayer  he  has  known  since  the  sincerity  of  child- 
hood. He  thinks  of  the  Publican ;  but  dares  to  lift 
his  eyes^toward  heaven. 

And  lo  !  They  fall  upon  the  central  figure  of  the 
ages  ;  looking  down  upon  him,  ineffable  pity  in  the 
dying  eyes,  was  the  face  of  the  Crucified,  His  arms 
wide  outstretched  upon  the  cross.  Luminous  in  love 
appeared  the  wistful  gaze,  finding  him  out  amid  the 
throng,  and  calling  him  to  the  pardon  and  the  peace 
His  passion  had  provided.  In  great  and  holy  loneli- 
ness that  figure  bended  over  him ;  and  Stephen's 
melted  heart  acclaimed  his  Saviour,  standing  as  he 
was  amid  other  sinful  men,  but  beholding  the  great 
Redemption  as  for  him  alone. 

The  baying  voices  of  the  past,  of  an  accusing  con- 
science, of  a  threatening  future,  of  a  ruined  life,  are 
all  hushed  in  silence,  as  he  looks,  the  tears  rolling 
down  his  cheeks  at  the  mighty  revelation,  its  new- 
ness smiting  him  with  overwhelming  power.  He 
sees  the  crown  of  thorns,  the  wounded  hands,  the 
pallid  brow,  the  fragrance  of  welcome  death ;  and 
his  trembling  soul  crept  into  the  great  shelter  of  the 
Sacrifice,  without  voice  of  praise  or  sound  of  vow, 
with  nothing  but  the  blessed  sense  of  need  and  guilt 
and  sorrow — and  refuge  from  them  all. 


XXVII 
"AND    GO    UNTO   MY   FATHER" 

NATURES  meant  for  greatness  may  be, 
often  are,  capable  of  mysterious  weakness; 
but  great  occasions  will  reveal  their  latent 
strength,  in  swift  and  decisive  action. 

Thus  was  it  with  Stephen  Wishart,  his  soul's 
awakening  flowing  into  great  resolve.  The  prowess 
of  noble  natures  is  attested  by  their  capacity  to 
choose,  not  between  a  right  and  a  wrong — but  be- 
tween two  rights.  Which  two  now  laid  claim  to 
Stephen's  loyalty — his  duty  to  his  sacred  calling  and 
his  duty  to  his  departed  wife.  These  rival  claims 
were  soon  adjusted. 

For  on  the  succeeding  Sabbath  day  the  spell-bound 
worshippers  heard  his  last  sermon  in  the  Church  of 
the  Covenant.  It  was  preceded  by  a  brief  and  irrev- 
ocable statement  of  the  immediate  severance  of  the 
tie  that  bound  them,  for  which  he  suggested  no  rea- 
son and  volunteered  no  explanation.  Nor  did  they 
suspect  the  truth,  nor  any  part  of  it.  Vaguely  had 
the  impression  spread,  exciting  no  comment,  that 
their  minister's  wife  was  gone  on  a  visit  to  distant 
friends  ;  though  who  these  were,  or  where  they  dwelt, 
was  wrapped  in  the  uncertainty  that  had  long  baffled 
the  very  curiosity  it  first  aroused. 

Reawakened  though  this  was  by  his  strange  an^ 
nouncement,  it  was  soon  lost  in  wonder  as  they  fell 

334 


"AND  GO   UNrO  MY  FATHER"      335 

under  the  charm  of  his  parting  sermon.  For  the 
chastened  face,  radiant  with  its  great  emotion,  and 
the  rich  voice,  thrilled  and  thrilling  with  the  new  tide 
of  feeling  in  his  soul,  and  the  copious  flow  of  speech, 
strong,  tender,  eloquent  even  beyond  his  wont,  breath- 
ing a  simplicity  of  faith  and  a  strength  of  purpose 
that  found  their  other  voice  in  the  soulful  eyes  which 
a  holier  vision  than  they  knew  had  kindled — all  com- 
bined to  enhance  a  thrall  the  most  careless  were  com- 
pelled to  own. 

The  following  Monday  morning,  a  committee  called 
upon  him  to  remonstrate.  Hastily  organized,  it  was 
almost  as  hastily  dismissed,  marvelling  at  an  intensity 
beyond  their  understanding. 

And  the  lengthening  shadows  about  his  path  were 
cast  by  that  same  morning's  sun,  almost  vanished 
now,  as  Stephen  hurried  along  the  familiar  way  from 
the  station  to  his  father's  house.  Not  waiting  to 
knock,  he  opened  the  door  and  entered. 

Warm  and  loving,  subdued  and  reserved  though  the 
voice  that  uttered  it,  was  the  welcome  of  Robert 
Wishart  to  his  son.  An  instant  told  him  it  was  a 
wounded  fledgling  that  had  crept  back  to  the  nest ; 
and  all  that  tender  tact  could  do  was  soon  availed  to 
learn  the  cause. 

"  Ye're  the  minister  o'  the  Covenant  Kirk,  my  son 
— but  I'm  yir  faither ;  aye  mind  ye  that,  laddie.  I'm 
yir  faither — an'  ye  canna  suffer  wi'oot  I  suffer  tae,"  he 
said  in  mother  tones.  "  Licht  the  lamp,  Reuben ;  it's 
ower  dark." 

"  Please   don't,   father,"    Stephen   interrupted,  his 


336  THE    UNDERTOW 

voice  low ;  "  I'd  sooner  talk  in  the  gloaming.  Sit 
here  beside  me,  Reuben,  and  I'll  tell  you  and  father 
everything." 

Reuben  drew  his  chair  nearer,  and  the  three  pro- 
files, deep  seriousness  upon  every  face,  were  barely 
v;sible  in  the  deepening  dusk. 

Stephen  began;  and  sometimes  with  faltering 
words,  sometimes  with  half-torrent  speech,  sometimes 
with  choking  voice,  sometimes  with  gusts  of  silence, 
he  told  all  the  tragic,  story.  As  he  finished,  the  bitter 
plaint  of  his  loneliness,  of  his  love  for  the  pure  spirit 
that  had  fled  from  him,  broke  from  his  lips  in  a  surg- 
ing cry  he  tried  in  vain  to  stifle ;  and  slowly,  with 
the  caress  of  an  infinite  compassion,  his  father's  arm 
stole  about  his  neck,  tightening,  tightening  in  answer 
to  his  soul's  strong  pity,  as  though  he  would  shelter 
him  forever.  And  as  Stephen  leaned  his  face  against 
the  great  true  bosom,  with  a  trustfulness  he  had  not 
known  since  boyhood,  a  sense  of  warmth  and  com- 
fort crept  about  him  as  he  realized  that  a  wounded 
son  hath  no  refuge  like  a  father's  love. 

The  father's  quivering  voice  broke  the  stillness. 

"  My  bairn,  my  mitherless  bairn,  I'm  faither  and 
mither  to  ye  baith.  Oh,  Stephen,  my  son,  my  son." 
Then  he  stroked  his  hair,  even  touched  his  cheek — 
and  the  other  hemisphere  of  his  father's  soul  unfolded 
itself  in  that  moment  as  Stephen  had  never  known  it 
before. 

Soon  the  old  man  returned  to  his  chair,  all  his  old 
control  restored ;  amid  the  now  fallen  night  he  talked 
on,  reviewing,  estimating,  comforting,  counselling. 


"AND  GO   UNTO  MY  FATHER"      337 

"  Ye  maun  gang  an'  find  her  like  a  man,  Stephen," 
he  said  at  length.  "  Ye  maun  follow  till  ye  find  her. 
Ye  did  richt  to  gie  up  yir  kirk ;  an'  ye  maun  start 
the  morn.  ...  It  disna  maitter  where.  I  think 
mysel'  she'll  hae  made  for  her  auld  hame — that's  aye 
the  way  wi'  the  fleein'.  Aye,  she  maist  likely  struck 
for  the  auld  country.  Did  ye  no'  say  it  was  Chester 
she  cam  frae  ?  The  money  ye  gied  her  afore  she  cam 
doon  to  visit  here — toward  a  seal-skin  coat,  ye  said — 
that  wad  be  plenty  to  tak  her  hame.  An'  it's  nat'ral 
for  onybody  to  gang  hame." 

This  opened  a  new  vein ;  the  conversation  had 
wound  its  way  but  a  little  farther  when  the  father's 
voice  broke  in  again. 

"  Reuben,  licht  ye  the  lamp." 

"  Pardon  me,  father — but  why  ?  "  Stephen  ven- 
tured. "  It  seems  so  much  easier,  for  me  at  least,  to 
talk  all  this  in  the  dark." 

"We're  through  wi'  talkin',"  his  father  answered 
a/most  sternly;  "the  time  for  talkin's  past.  I'm 
gaein'  to  dae  something;  Reuben,  kindle  ye  the 
lamp." 

Which,  duly  lighted,  the  old  man  took  from  Reu- 
ben's hand,  passing  straightway  into  the  adjoining 
room.  They  heard  the  click  of  a  lock,  the  scraping 
of  a  reluctant  drawer,  then  the  rustling  of  a  hurried 
search ;  and  in  a  moment  the  father  was  back  again. 

"  Reuben's  great  for  thae  banks,"  he  remarked,  as 
he  set  the  lamp  on  the  table,  "  but  I  aye  keep  a  wee 
pickle  where  I  can  pit  my  hands  on't ;  I  dinna  be- 
lieve in  sendin'  a'  the  cream  till  the  factory,"  he  added 


THE    UNDERTOW 

as  he  sat  down  beside  Stephen,  slowly  beginning  to 
count  out  a  roll  of  startlingly  large  bills. 

"  Here,  Stephen,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  ye  canna 
gang  to  the  auld  country  wi'oot  siller — nor  hame 
again — and  it's  been  botherin'  me  what  wad  I  dae  wi' 
this ;  this  is  the  Lord's  daein'.  Tak  it,  my  son ; 
there's  an  extry  pickle  there  to  buy  the  lassie's  ticket 
back — to  bring  the  lassie  back,  mind  ye.  I'm  thirstin' 
for  a  blink  o'  her  bonnie  eyes.  Na,  na,  ye  maun  tak 
it,  Stephen." 

Stephen  was  trembling  as  his  father  thrust  the  rust- 
ling notes  into  his  hand ;  the  grandeur  of  this  great 
life,  far  more  than  the  money  he  had  just  received, 
overbore  his  wondering  soul,  towering  before  him  like 
a  distant  peak,  more  and  more  revealed  as  it  came 
nearer  to  the  light  of  heaven.  Rising  with  an  im- 
pulsive movement,  he  flung  his  arms  about  his  father's 
neck. 

"  Oh,  father,"  he  faltered,  "  I  don't  deserve  it — all 
you  and  Rube  have  done  for  me.  Oh,  God,  forgive 
me.  My  father,  my  father  !  "  he  sobbed,  as  he  held 
his  father  close,  the  bills  now  fluttering  about  his 
feet. 

Reuben  stooped  to  recover  them,  and  as  he  handed 
them  to  his  brother  there  was  a  wealth  of  sincerity  in 
his  voice. 

"  Why,  Steve,  why  shouldn't  we — both  ?  We'll  all 
work  together,  Steve,  till  everything  comes  right 
again.  I  know  you'll  get  her  back." 

Meantime  the  old  man  had  found  shelter  at  the 
clock,  winding  away  as  though  the  sands  of  time 


"AND  GO   UNTO  MY  FATHER"      339 

were  sinking.  As  he  closed  the  ponderous  door  he 
turned  his  head  toward  his  sons. 

"  There's  juist  ae  thing  I  want  ye  to  mind, 
Stephen." 

"  Yes,  father,"  came  the  subdued  voice,  "  what 
is  it?" 

"  I  want  ye  to  mind  there's  mair  where  yon  cam 
frae — there's  mair  when  ye're  needin'  it.  Now  we'll 
gang  till  oor  rest." 


XXVIII 
The    PRODIGAL'S    CRUSADE 

A  LOITERING  laggard,  proudly  defined  as 
greyhound  though  it  was,  seemed  the  vessel 
that  had  borne  Stephen  again  across  the 
sea.  And  as  it  steamed  swiftly  up  the  Mersey  his 
fellow  travellers  could  not  but  note  the  stern  earnest- 
ness of  the  gaze  with  which  he  searched  the  ap- 
proaching shore,  though  they  knew  not  how  great  the 
treasure  he  had  come  to  seek.  His  had  not  been  a 
familiar  form  among  the  passengers  ;  for  much  of  his 
time  had  been  spent  after  a  fashion  that  was  growing 
sweeter  to  his  taste,  alone  with  that  conquering 
Wrestler  who  was  now  his  friend,  perfecting  the 
anguished  convalescence  of  his  soul. 

Liverpool  was  soon  left  behind.  An  hour  later, 
the  shadows  lengthening  about  him  as  he  walked,  a 
sad  faced  man  was  pressing  slowly  along  the  torpid 
streets  of  Chester,  little  noting  its  claims  to  antiquar- 
ian fame.  For  a  far  different  past,  and  a  throbbing 
present,  and  an  uncertain  future,  filled  his  mind. 
This  was  the  city  whose  name  had  been  so  often  on 
her  lips  in  the  endearing  terms  of  home. 

He  found  himself  unexpectedly  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  great  cathedral ;  he  smiled  as  he  recalled  how 
the  iron  Cromwell  had  once  stabled  his  horse  within 
its  walls,  by  way  of  demonstration  that  he  was  low- 

34° 


The   PRODIGAL'S   CRUSADE     341 

churchman  to  the  heart.  Beguiling  strains  of  music 
called  him,  and  he  entered  the  noble  portal,  walking 
toward  the  aisle  with  that  ocean  of  loneliness  about 
him  which  only  eventide,  and  twilight  music,  and  a 
shadowed  heart  can  combine  to  furnish. 

What  would  have  given  him  a  sort  of  peace  in 
other  days  seemed  now  but  to  probe  and  torture.  He 
soon  turned  again  toward  the  light  without,  dim  light 
enough  without  cathedral  shades.  And,  reappearing, 
he  suddenly  realized  how  helpless  was  this  aimless 
wandering ;  yet  he  knew  not  what  else  to  do.  He 
wandered  on.  But  a  few  minutes  had  passed  when 
he  found  himself  crossing  the  park  that  leads  to  the 
great  cliff  overhanging  the  placid  Dee.  He  took  a 
seat  in  the  little  arbour  at  the  very  edge,  pondering 
how  best  he  might  begin  the  chase.  Soon  he  noticed 
that  an  old  man  with  flowing  beard  had  taken  his 
seat  beside  him.  The  stranger  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  That's  a  wonderful  bit  o'  music,  sir,"  he  remarked 
in  a  decidedly  English  voice,  "  the  best  bell  in  all 
Hengland,  sir,"  as  the  rich  tones  rolled  from  the  ca- 
thedral tower. 

"  It  is,"  Stephen  answered,  "  it's  lovely  music ; 
what  is  it  ringing  for  ?  " 

"  It's  the  curfew,  sir — it's  to  call  the  wanderers  'ome. 
That's  the  bell  as  Mr.  Gray  was  a  thinkin'  of  when  he 
wrote  'is  helegy,  sir.  My  great-grandfather  knowed 
Mr.  Gray  ;  he  wrote  poetry  'imself,  sir — but  he  never 
'appened  to  think  of  a  helegy.  It  was  a  grand  idea, 
the  idea  of  a  helegy,"  he  concluded,  shaking  his  head 
sagaciously  at  Stephen. 


342  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Have  you  lived  long  in  Chester  ?  "  the  latter  en- 
quired, after  a  sufficiently  respectful  pause. 

"  All  my  life,  sir — that  is,  in  the  country  near-by — 
I  'ad  a  little  place  in  the  country,  sir.  But  I  retired 
to  Chester ;  came  in  when  I  'card  the  curfew  ring  the 
hevening,  as  I  might  say,  sir — that's  my  great-grand- 
father in  me  ;  did  I  tell  you  he  was  a  poet,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  did,"  Stephen  answered  ab- 
sently, bent  on  different  information.  Which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  seek. 

Concealing  his  errand,  he  began  to  cross-question 
the  old  man  ;  for  Hattie,  too,  had  lived  in  the  near-by 
country.  An  eager  quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed 
when  Stephen  rose  to  go. 

"  I  think  I  can  find  the  way.  I'm  sure  I  can — but 
you  say  there's  none  of  them  there  now  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  there  ben't  any  of  them  there  now 
— the  girl  was  the  last  to  go,  and  she  went  to  Lunnon 
not  long  after  her  mother  died.  Her  mother  'ad 
some  of  the  best  blood  of  Haberdeen  in  her  veins, 
they  say — and  the  lassie  looked  it.  She  was  the 
prettiest  they  ever  'ad  round  here,  sir — you  say  you 
knew  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  knew  her."  Stephen's  voice  was  low  and 
lonely  as  he  looked  far  out  over  the  tranquil  valley  of 
the  Dee,  the  clatter  of  happy  boaters  floating  up  to 
him,  "  and  I  thank  you  warmly,  sir ;  I'll  go  out  to 
Hazleside  in  the  morning.  I'll  see  the  Hadleys,  of 
whom  you  speak — I  have  the  name  in  my  notebook." 

He  walked  with  strange  hurry  back  to  the 
quaint  Westminster  Inn,  dear  to  all  lovers  of  quiet 


The    PRODIGAL'S   CRUSADE     343 

elegance.  When  he  reached  its  hospitable  portal  he 
was  bathed  in  perspiration — and  he  marvelled  at  his 
haste ;  for  it  could  avail  him  nothing — she  was  not 
there.  Through  its  dim  halls,  richly  strewn  with  an- 
cient treasure,  he  hurried  to  his  room,  where,  seated 
by  the  window,  the  subdued  tumult  of  the  classic  city 
floated  up  about  him.  He  dreaded  the  waiting  night 
and  knew  not  how  he  could  get  it  past.  What  was 
this  that  so  worked  like  madness  in  his  brain  ? 

Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  obedient  to  a  quick 
resolve.  No  night  for  him,  when  perchance  but  an 
hour's  search  lay  between  him  and  eternal  day !  He 
hurried  to  the  street  below ;  five  minutes  later  he  was 
driving  swiftly  past  God's  Providence  House,  and  a 
fiercer  fever  than  any  it  had  escaped  was  burning  in 
his  heart. 

Soon  the  blessed  country  air  fanned  his  fevered 
face.  Enquiring,  knocking,  retracing  the  way,  en- 
quiring again,  he  at  last  found  the  cottage  wherein 
dwelt  the  Hadleys,  to  whom  his  earlier  informant  had 
referred  him.  A  light  burned  dimly  in  an  upper 
window,  evidently  the  last ;  Stephen  flew  to  the  door 
and  knocked.  In  a  few  minutes  a  middle  aged  man 
appeared. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  Stephen  began,  "  for  disturbing 
you  so  late ;  but  I  am  on  important  business."  Then 
followed  his  eager  veiled  enquiry,  the  enquirer  thank- 
ful for  the  dark. 

The  man  blinked  heavily,  rubbing  one  foot  against 
the  other. 

"  Aye,  I  know  the  name,"  he  said  reflectively,  "  the 


UNDERTOW 

Hastie  name  used  to  be  well-known  round  here ;  the 
Bostons  are  in  their  house  now.  I  knew  the  girl,  too 
— but  we've  lost  all  trace  of  her — she  left  here  about 
the  time  you  said.  They're  all  gone  now — I  was 
speakin'  to  the  missus  about  them  to-day.  The 
burying-ground's  a  mile  farther  along  the  road,  and 
Jake  Boston  told  me  there's  a  new  stone  in  their 
plot. 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?  Oh,  yes,  easy  enough — 
it's  about  ten  minutes'  drive ;  I  see  you've  got  a  trap 
— it's  on  the  right  hand  side.  Good-night,  sir,  good- 
night," for  Stephen  was  already  hurrying  to  his  car- 
riage. "  Their  plot's  in  the  very  centre,  under  the 
highest  elm  in  the  place,"  the  man  called  after  him. 

Half  of  the  ten  minutes  were  still  unspent  when 
Stephen  stepped  from  the  cab. 

"  Drive  on  a  little  ways,"  he  ordered  the  wonder- 
ing man,  "  and  wait  till  I  come." 

The  moon  was  veiled  as  he  groped  his  way  through 
the  long  grass,  turning  this  way  and  that,  to  violate 
no  slumberer's  bed.  Soon  he  marked  the  tree,  and 
beneath  it  found  the  stone,  its  surroundings  indi- 
cating that  it  had  been  newly  placed.  A  strange  fear 
seized  him,  full  of  unreasoning  dread — for  it  could 
scarcely  be — and  he  sank  down,  heedless  of  the  soak- 
ing dew,  upon  the  grave.  The  imperfect  light  was 
just  sufficient  to  let  him  see  that  there  was  lettering 
on  the  stone.  His  eyes  fastened  themselves  in  a 
rigid  gaze  upon  the  characters — but  in  vain. 

Yet  what  letter  was  that,  that  initial  letter  ?  His 
hand  shook  like  an  aspen  as  he  fumbled  in  his  pocket 


The    PRODIGAL'S   CRUSADE     345 

for  a  match.  He  struck  it  violently  and  held  it  up  in 
a  torment  of  fear ;  the  distant  driver  chided  his  rest- 
less horse,  and  the  hollow  sound  echoed  about  him 
like  a  profane  voice  amid  the  stillness  of  the  dead. 
Then  the  match  fell  from  his  hand,  faintly  dying 
among  the  glistening  grass,  and  Stephen's  head  fell 
forward  on  his  arms,  his  hand  resting  on  the  gloomy 
marble,  a  low  groan  gurgling  from  his  lips. 

"  '  Hattie  Hastie,'  "  he  murmured  to  himself.  "  Oh, 
God,  Hattie — Hattie."  Yet  even  then  a  dim,  dead 
query  floated  through  his  mind  as  to  who  had  dis- 
charged the  sacred  trust.  It  vanished,  and  his  head 
sunk  lower,  despair  clutching  at  his  heart. 

In  sudden  triumph  the  silvery  moon  swam  forth 
from  behind  the  clouds,  gilding  every  sepulchre  with 
light.  Stephen  started  at  the  silent  crash,  raised  him- 
self up,  turned  his  staring  eyes  again  upon  the  stone. 
The  distant  driver  started  in  fear  as  he  heard  the  sud- 
den cry ;  it  was  the  cry  of  a  sudden  ecstasy. 

"  Hattie  Hastie,  wife  of  Alexander  Hastie,"  the 
inscription  read,  "  in  the  forty-second  year  of  her 
age." 

Stephen  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  brighter  than 
the  night,  devouring  the  words  again,  glorying  in  the 
tale  of  death. 

The  moon,  still  generous  with  her  light,  gilded  the 
two  mounds  that  lay  before  him  in  majestic  stillness. 
Then  his  heart  leaped  within  him  as  he  sprang  for- 
ward, seizing  a  rich  cluster  of  flowers  that  lay  upon 
the  mother's  grave;  pale  as  the  dead  beneath,  he 
gazed  at  it,  holding  it  out  before  him,  even  burying 


346  THE    UNDERTOW 

his  face  within  it  to  taste  its  rich  perfume.  For  the 
flowers  were  fresh  and  new — therefore  was  his  face  so 
pale.  Had  he  found  the  living  among  the  dead  ? 

In  a  moment  he  was  striding  along  the  road,  soon 
coming  up  with  the  waiting  driver ;  the  latter  sprang 
to  the  box  as  his  passenger  approached.  Stephen 
walked  close  up,  his  hand  extended,  a  half  sovereign 
gleaming  in  it. 

"  You  can  go  back  to  Chester,"  he  said,  "  I  shall 
not  need  you  further." 

"  Thank  ye,  sir ;  goin'  to  stay  'ere  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  answered. 

"  Funny  choice  o'  lodgin's,"  the  man  muttered,  as 
he  wrapped  his  rug  around  him,  "  but  there's  lots  as 
does  it — lots  o'  them  doesn't  come  back  after  you 
drives  'em  to  the  graveyard,"  he  mused  with  grim 
English  humour. 

The  night  went  past ;  and  Stephen  kept  his  vigil, 
sometimes  beside  the  silent  forms  that  linked  him  to 
the  absent  one,  sometimes  farther  afield  by  many  a 
hill  and  brook  and  tree  that  the  friendly  moon,  and  a 
harrowed  memory,  called  to  a  clearness  of  outline  he 
could  not  fail  to  recognize. 

Many  a  secret  vow,  and  many  a  muffled  prayer, 
and  many  a  gentle  tide  of  love,  coursed  through  his 
heart,  his  now  expectant  heart,  while  the  pulseless 
mounds,  and  the  sleeping  vales,  and  the  hills  she  loved 
so  well,  were  traversed  in  the  silent  light.  Expectant, 
we  have  said — for  what  other  hands  could  have  laid 
that  fragrant  tribute  on  the  grave  ? 


The    PRODIGAL'S   CRUSADE     347 

The  sun  had  called  the  peasants  from  their  beds  an 
hour  or  so  before  Stephen  turned  in  to  the  open  door 
of  a  thatched  cottage  that  commanded  a  full  view  of 
the  little  graveyard.  A  kindly  faced  woman,  busy 
with  domestic  tasks,  bade  him  enter. 

"  You're  early  about,  sir,"  she  said.  "  Can  I  be  of 
any  service  to  you  ?  " 

For  answer,  Stephen  craved  the  favour  of  an  hour's 
rest.  "  I  couldn't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  sleep  last 
night,"  he  said.  "  This  is  my  first  visit  to  this  dis- 
trict— I  was  at  the  cemetery ;  and  I  found  the  graves 
of  some  who  were  very  dear  to  one  who  was — who 
is — very  dear  to  me,"  he  concluded  evasively,  "  and 
the  night  was  fine — and  I  recognized  some  of  the 
spots,  too ;  but  I'm  feeling  a  little  exhausted  now,  and 
if  you  could  let  me  stretch  myself  for  an  hour  or 
so " 

The  woman  interrupted  him.  "  Certainly  I  can. 
There's  a  couch  in  that  wee  room  yonder,  and  you're 
welcome  to  it."  As  she  spoke,  she  picked  up  a  light 
shawl  that  lay  beside  her,  which  she  carried  in  and 
threw  at  the  foot  of  the  couch. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  she  said,  as  she  returned,  "  but 
are  you  not  from  America  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  answered  wonderingly ;  "  how 
could  you  tell  ?  Were  you  ever  there  ?  " 

"  No,"  the  woman  responded,  sighing  as  she  spoke, 
"  but  my  heart's  often  there.  I  have  a  son  there,  sir, 
and  I  haven't  heard  from  him  for  over  two  years 
now.  I  had  another  son,  and  he  was  buried  from 
his  vessel — lost  at  sea — isn't  it  an  awful  expression, 


348  THE    UNDERTOW 

sir?  But  he  doesn't  seem  as  much  lost  to  me  as 
Laban." 

"  Laban,"  Stephen  repeated,  "  Laban  who  ?  What 
is  his  second  name?"  Something  of  eagerness 
marked  his  tone,  for  the  name  was  not  a  common 
one. 

"  Laban  Shortill — his  father  got  the  name  out  of 
the  Bible.  Why,  sir,  why  ?  "  and  the  woman's  cheek 
was  blanched  as  she  drew  nearer  Stephen,  roused  by 
the  expression  on  his  face. 

"  Laban  Shortill,"  the  latter  repeated.  "  Has  he 
dark  brown  hair,  with  a  lock  of  white  just  over  the 
left  temple  ?  " 

The  woman  sank  into  the  chair,  deathly  pale. 
"  Oh,  God,"  she  faltered,  "  don't  disappoint  me — yes, 
sir,  he  was  only  ten  when  he  got  hurted  there  with  a 
horse."  Then  she  stopped,  her  eyes  appealing  to  him 
to  go  on. 

"  I  knew  him,"  Stephen  said  quickly,  steadying  his 
voice.  "  He's  coachman  for  one  of  my  friends  in 
Hamilton;"  and  as  he  spoke  the  woman  rose  and 
seized  him  by  the  hands,  as  if  she  would  wring  out 
information  of  the  absent  one.  Which  Stephen  was 
glad  to  give,  all  he  could,  finally  writing  down  the 
wanderer's  address  with  the  utmost  care ;  the  next 
half  hour  was  full  of  glad  emotion  to  them  both,  his 
own  loneliness  filling  his  heart  with  pity  for  this  fel- 
low sufferer. 

Then  she  insisted  on  his  lying  down,  which  he  was 
nothing  loath  to  do,  soon  falling  into  a  heavy  slumber. 
In  his  dream,he  stood  at  the  cottage  door  and  saw,  with 


The   PRODIGAL'S   CRUSADE     349 

enchanted  eyes,  the  graceful  figure  of  a  girl,  her 
golden  tresses  floating  in  the  wind  as  she  pressed 
toward  the  towering  elm,  a  rich  cluster  of  flowers  in 
her  shapely  hands,  the  yearning  of  love  and  loneli- 
ness upon  her  face.  He  moved  uneasily  where  he 
lay,  and  the  woman  stood  over  him  exultantly,  al- 
most lovingly ;  his  lips  moved,  burning  hot,  and  she 
heard  them  murmur  "  home  .  .  .  together," 
while  a  sweet  smile  played  upon  the  weary,  noble 
face.  She  bent  as  if  to  kiss  him,  confusing  him  with 
the  wanderer  he  had  found — then  refrained,  and 
turned  to  the  room  without. 

A  few  minutes  later  Stephen  appeared,  walking 
straight  to  the  door  and  looking  intently  across  the 
fields. 

"  Did  you  get  any  rest,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  I  had  a  sleep.  Do  you  know 
the  graves  in  yonder  cemetery  ?  " 

"  Some  of  them,  sir — I  have  a  little  girl  there." 

Stephen  paused.  "  You  don't  know  whose  plot 
that  is  at  the  foot  of  that  great  elm  there,  do  you  ?  " 

The  woman  came  to  the  door.  "  Yes,  sir,  I  do — 
that's  the  Hasties'.  The  father  and  mother  lie  there  ; 
their  daughter  Hattie — she  was  the  loveliest  thing 
you  ever  seen,  sir — she  went  to  Lunnon  a  long  time 
ago  and  never  came  back  since.  Did  you  know 
them,  sir?" 

"  Are  there  any  relatives  here  yet  ?  "  Stephen  pur- 
sued, disregarding  her  question. 

"  No,  sir,  none  that  I  know  of.  But  I've  noticed  a 
strange  thing  lately.  Two  or  three  times  I've  seen 


350  'THE    UNDERTOW 

some  one,  a  young  lady,  going  there  in  the  early 
morning ;  and  she  had  flowers.  At  least,  as  far  as  I 
could  see,  I  was  sure  it  was  flowers  she  was  carrying. 
I've  often  wondered  if  ...  you're  looking  so 
faint,  sir — I'm  just  going  to  get  you  a  bite  of  break- 
fast ;  maybe  some  one  done  as  much  for  Laban,  poor 
boy.  What's  the  matter,  sir  ?  " 

For  Stephen's  face  was  ashen  white,  and  he  stood, 
no  word  escaping  the  pale,  trembling  lips.  His  hand 
was  outstretched,  rigid,  pointing  with  the  intensity  of 
death  across  the  fields,  his  great  eyes  fixed  and 
shining. 

She,  too,  looked — and  saw,  the  morning  light  glint- 
ing on  the  golden  hair,  a  woman's  form  slowly  wind- 
ing toward  the  stately  elm. 

She  turned  toward  Stephen — but  he  had  started 
on,  silent,  no  word  or  sign  coming  from  him,  his 
hand  outstretched  a  moment  longer  as  he  swiftly 
leaped  the  dyke  and  bent  his  way  straight  across  the 
fields. 

Not  once  were  his  eyes  withdrawn  from  the  form 
that  was  now  at  the  foot  of  the  tree.  It  was  the  same 
he  had  seen  in  his  dreams.  Midway  he  came  to  a 
stream  six  or  seven  feet  in  width — and  he  leaped  it 
as  though  it  had  been  the  furrow  of  a  passing  plough. 
His  lips  moved  slightly  as  he  walked,  in  praise  and 
prayer,  invoking  the  aid  of  God,  promising  his  soul 
to  the  new  life  that  would  begin  beneath  yon  near- 
ing  elm. 

And  in  that  hour  he  knew,  as  he  had  not  known 
before,  how  deep  the  wound  from  which  his  heart 


The   PRODIGAL'S   CRUSADE     351 

was  bleeding,  riven  by  some  knife  that  had  been 
whetted  in  Eternity.  An  infinite  desire,  pure  and 
holy,  bore  him  on.  That  the  wreck  of  time  was  to 
be  saved,  that  his  reprieve  had  come  at  last,  that  the 
long  eclipse  was  over,  that  life's  golden  fruitage  was 
not  to  be  torn  and  trampled  after  all — these  blessed 
joys  of  love,  love  true  and  tender  as  the  heart  for 
which  it  longed,  flowed  like  a  river  in  his  soul. 

As  he  stealthily  descended  the  stile  that  led  into 
the  little  cemetery,  he  saw  the  object  of  his  eager 
gaze  seated  on  the  grave.  Tenderly  she  untied  the 
cluster  of  flowers  in  her  hands,  proceeding  to  dis- 
tribute them  about  the  lowly  mound,  adjusting  them 
with  reverent  care.  A  swift  fear  flashed  through 
Stephen's  heart  as  he  crept  softly  toward  her,  the 
torture  of  the  thought  that  she  might  after  all  refuse 
to  return  with  him  overwhelming  him  for  a  moment ; 
only  for  a  moment,  for  he  felt  assured  that  his  pres- 
ence there,  his  long  journey,  his  loving  search,  would 
convince  her  of  the  reality  of  his  love.  Closer,  still 
closer,  he  crept,  her  face  still  turned  from  him,  her 
hair  a  shade  darker,  he  thought,  than  when  he  had 
seen  it  last,  the  sunny  hair  that  in  sunnier  days  his 
hands  and  lips  had  loved  to  fondle. 

He  made  some  trifling  noise ;  she  turned  her  head 
quickly.  As  the  face  swung  around  toward  him,  he 
outheld  his  arms,  making  as  if  to  run,  for  some  dis- 
tance still  lay  between.  But  the  face  turned  fully  on 
his  own — and  he  stood  as  still  as  the  sleepers  at 
his  feet,  his  hands  outstretched  in  horror,  his  face 
pallid  in  its  agony.  Then  slowly,  indifferent  to  the 


352  THE    UNDERTOW 

stranger's  wondering  gaze,  conscious  only  of  empti- 
ness and  loss  and  the  cruel  weight  of  hopes  that  had 
fallen  dead,  he  sank  down  upon  the  ground,  his 
anguish  gurgling  like  a  hemorrhage  through  parched 
and  quivering  lips. 

The  startled  stranger  rose  and  walked  quickly  to 
where  he  sat,  or  knelt,  upon  the  grass.  She  stood  a 
few  paces  away  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  said 
gently : 

"  Are  you  ill,  sir  ?  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 
He  waited  a  moment,  then  turned  his  staring  eyes 
upon  her,  looking  hungrily  at  her  face,  his  gaze 
deepening  into  darkness,  almost  resentment,  as 
though  that  face  were  counterfeit.  Then  he  spoke — 
but  the  words  could  not  be  heard,  and  he  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands  again. 

"  What's  the  matter,  sir  ?  "  she  pleaded.  "  Do  tell 
me." 

"  It's  the  hand  of  God,"  he  murmured,  but  the 
words  were  meant  for  himself  alone.  "  Oh,  Hattie, 
Hattie !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  Hattie  Hastie  ? "  the  soft  voice 
asked  timidly.  But  if  the  question  had  come  from 
mouldering  lips  beneath  him,  Stephen  Wishart  could 
not  have  sprung  more  quickly  to  his  feet,  nor  could 
the  banished  blood  have  flown  back  more  swiftly  to 
the  quivering  face.  He  leaped  to  the  girl's  side,  seized 
her  arm,  then  as  quickly  released  it,  her  eyes  arrested 
by  his  fiery  gaze. 

w  Yes,  Hattie  Hastie — that's  what  you  said — what 
know  you  of  Hattie  Hastie  ?  In  God's  name  tell  me 


The   PRODIGAL'S   CRUSADE     353 

what  you  know.  Is  she  here  ?  Has  she  been  here  ? 
Have  you  seen  her  ?  " 

He  paused,  his  quick  breath  suspended  till  she 
should  make  reply. 

"  I  used  to  know  her,"  the  girl  said  quietly.  "  I 
used  to  know  her — but  she  went  away  to  London. 
And  I  went  to  Liverpool  soon  after.  I'm  in  service 
there — and  this  is  the  first  time  I've  been  back." 

She  paused.  "Yes,"  Stephen  urged;  "well,  go 
on — why  did  you  come  here  to-day  ?  Was  it  you 
who  put  the  flowers  on  the  grave  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was.  I  put  those  flowers  on  her  mother's 
grave  to-day,  too.  I  do  it  for  Hattie's  sake — she 
used  to  do  it  before  she  went  away.  She  was  so 
good  to  us  ;  my  own  mother  died  a  little  while  be- 
fore she  left — and  Hattie  sat  up  with  her  four  nights 
before  she  died.  And  it  was  a  catching  disease,  too 
— it  was  scarlet  fever ;  my  little  brother  died  of  it 
just  before.  And  nobody  came  near  us  except  Hat- 
tie.  She  used  to  sing  to  mother — and  that's  all  I 
can  do  for  her  now.  There's  my  mother's  grave, 
that  one  with  the  rose-bush  at  the  foot.  And  when 
I  bring  flowers  for  mother  I  always  bring  them  for 
Hattie's,  too." 

The  girl  stopped,  and  the  eyes  that  looked  up  to 
Stephen  were  filled  with  tears. 

He  stood  silent,  listening  to  the  story,  touched  by 
its  beauty,  oppressed  by  the  doom  with  which  it 
swept  his  hopes  away.  He  walked  mutely  back  and 
picked  up  his  hat. 

"  And  have  you  never  heard  from  her  since  ?  "  he 


354  THE    UNDERTOW 

asked  in  a  frozen  voice,  half  turning  toward  the 
maiden  as  he  spoke. 

"  No,  I  never  did.  And  she  never  came  back — 
you  couldn't  tell  me  anything  about  her,  could  you, 
sir?" 

"  No,"  he  said  with  averted  face,  for  her  fondness 
touched  him.  "  I  can't  tell  you — here,  get  some 
little  keepsake  of  her ; "  he  slipped  a  sovereign  into 
her  hand, "  and  whenever  you  come  back  here  I'll  be 
glad  if  you  will  always  put  flowers  on  the  grave. 
Good-bye." 

The  girl  thanked  him,  and  Stephen  turned  away, 
beginning  to  retrace  his  steps  toward  Chester  as 
rapidly  as  his  heavy  heart  allowed.  He  saw  his 
kind  friend  of  the  cottage  gazing  toward  him  as  he 
strode  across  the  fields ;  but  he  turned  his  face  away 
and  walked  heavily  on.  Had  she  been  closer,  the 
woman  would  have  seen  a  face  like  to  the  face  of 
one  baptized  for  the  dead. 

Blessed  is  the  ministry  of  sorrow,  laying  upon 
the  heart  that  bears  it  the  burdens  of  another, 
healers  to  the  earlier  wound.  The  soul  that  echoes 
with  its  own  cry  is  ever  the  first  to  catch  the  whisper 
of  another's  grief,  stifling  the  louder  wail  within. 

Wherefore  Stephen  slackened  not  his  pace  till  he 
paused  before  the  door  of  the  telegraph  office  in  the 
ancient  city,  and  the  beads  of  perspiration  that  his 
quick  walk  had  started  were  still  upon  his  brow  as  he 
wrote  a  cable  message  to  Laban  Shortill : 

"  Your  mother's  suffering.     Write  at  once." 


XXIX 
LONDON  And    The    CHASE 

THAT  very  afternoon  found  Stephen  on  his 
way  to  London.  Past  the  richest  scenes  of 
English  beauty,  past  shrine  after  shrine  of 
historic  interest,  his  train  whirled  him  toward  the 
waiting  city.  Stratford,  Warwick,  Kenilworth,  Ox- 
ford, all  marvelled  at  his  contemptuous  haste.  He 
had  never  visited  them ;  but  the  voice  that  called  him 
to  tarry  was  faint  and  unavailing.  Enough  of  drama 
and  tragedy  and  knightly  war ;  enough  of  discipline 
and  schooling  too,  deeper  than  the  classic  Oxford 
could  impart,  were  mingling  in  his  life  already.  He 
scarcely  noticed  the  glory  of  the  day,  or  the  beauty 
of  the  varied  landscape,  or  the  splendour  of  a  hun- 
dred mansions  as  he  passed ;  his  gaze  was  backward 
turned,  fastened  still  upon  two  half-neglected  graves 
that  owned  the  scanty  decoration  of  a  stranger's 
hand ;  for,  beside  jthem,  invisible  to  every  eye  but 
his,  was  yet  another  lowly  mound  above  which  his 
heart  bended  in  silent  anguish.  The  deepest  graves 
are  unseen  of  human  eyes,  nor  have  been  digged  by 
human  hands  ;  and  toward  these  shadowy  sepulchres 
there  winds  the  long  procession  of  those  who  go  to 
weep,  their  wailing  heard  by  the  Eternal  Heart  alone. 
The  panting  engine  was  sobbing  out  its  story  of 
355 


THE    UNDERTOW 

exhaustion  as  Stephen  pressed  slowly  out  of  Padding- 
ton  station  to  the  ampler  spaces  of  the  Edgeware 
Road.  Mounting  a  bus,  he  looked  about  him  at  the 
tossing  crowds.  The  whole  spectacle  struck  him  as 
strangely  familiar,  as  it  does  all  returning  travellers  to 
the  mighty  Babylon  ;  the  separation  of  years  dwindles 
to  the  absence  of  a  day.  Yet  his  reverence  for  Lon- 
don, his  surrender  to  its  magic  thrall,  seemed  to  be 
no  more.  He  recalled  faintly  the  day-dreams  of  early 
boyhood  and  the  place  that  London  ever  had  as  an 
enchanted  city ;  but  now  he  found  himself  scanning 
its  living  tide  for  the  treasure  that  perchance  was  hid- 
den in  its  bosom. 

The  omnibus  rumbled  on,  and  soon  the  resonant 
voice  of  the  guard  announced  the  Marble  Arch. 
Starting  quickly,  Stephen's  eye  fell  on  the  very  spot 
that  had  been  the  scene  of  his  encounter  with  the  in- 
fidel, and,  moved  by  an  impulse  he  was  careless  to 
examine,  he  descended  to  the  street  and  walked 
quickly  to  the  very  ground  on  which  he  and  Hattie 
had  stood  together.  Musing,  he  sat  down  on  an  ad- 
joining bench,  memory  flowing  again  around  the 
place ;  but  the  graceful  form  and  the  earnest  face 
were  wanting — and  he  soon  arose.  For  he  had  other 
work  on  hand  than  brooding  over  paradises  that  were 
lost ;  his,  rather,  to  regain  that  life  without  which 
there  could  be  no  further  paradise  for  him. 

With  this  resolve  he  started  on  and  had  made  his 
way  as  far  as  Oxford  Street,  along  which  he  hurried, 
glancing  indifferently  now  and  then  into  its  gorgeous 
shops,  but  ever  peering  eagerly,  yet  almost  hope- 


LONDON  And    The    CHASE        357 

lessly,  into  the  faces  of  the  passers-by.  He  knew 
that  this  street  would  lead  him  into  Holborn  and 
thence  to  Gray's  Inn  Road,  near  to  which  was  the 
Army  home  that  had  sheltered  Hattie  on  that  mo- 
mentous night.  Fired  by  the  memory,  upborne  by 
the  hope,  he  was  striding  with  swift  pace  when  sud- 
denly he  leaped  from  the  pavement,  wheeling  quickly 
round ;  for  a  strong  arm  was  round  his  neck  and  a 
familiar  voice  was  saying  : 

"  Howly  Moses,  if  this  isn't  foinding  a  needle  in  a 
haystack !  I  followed  ye  half  a  block  before  I 
struck." 

"  Father  O'Rourke  ! "  Stephen  gasped  in  astonish- 
ment, the  crowd  dividing  about  them  as  they  stood. 
"  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here  ?  I  thought  you 
were  in  Hamilton." 

"  It's  not  in  Hamilton  I  am,  my  boy — it's  in  Lon- 
don, begorra ;  and  London's  the  place  for  me.  I 
came  away  a  little  suddint — that  was  the  last  sermon 
I  preached,  the  toime  I  saw  ye  in  St.  Anne's.  I  saw 
ye,  my  boy — ye  came  in  late,  shame  on  ye.  But  ye 
paid  foine  attintion,  and  I'll  forgive  ye.  The  loikes 
of  us,  d'ye  see,  can  get  away  widout  askin'  the  lave 
o'  the  congregation.  My  intintion  was  to  go  to 
Rome,  to  see  his  Holiness,  God  bless  him.  But  I've 
just  heard  that  poor  ould  Maloney  is  down  wid  paral- 
ysis ;  he's  been  care-taker  of  St.  Anne's  for  over  forty 
years.  And  they  say  the  ould  sinner's  askin'  for  me 
noight  and  day.  When  will  the  father  be  back,  he 
keeps  sayin' — and  they  tell  me  there's  an  outbreak  of 
diphtheria  in  Lower  Town — three  children  dead  al- 


358  THE    UNDERTOW 

ready.  There's  not  been  as  much  sickness  in  Hamil- 
ton for  years,  they  say.  Come,  let's  be  movin' 
on." 

"  Well,"  Stephen  said  as  the  old  priest  paused, 
"  you're  not  going  back,  are  you  ?  " 

"  That's  the  very  thing  I'm  going  to  do.  I'm 
going  to  ould  Ireland  to  see  my  sister  first — then 
straight  home.  The  Pope'll  keep — and  Rome  won't 
vanish  in  a  day.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  belave  ould 
Maloney's  dying  blessing'll  be  just  as  good  as  the 
Pope's.  Duty,  my  boy;  there's  always  blessing 
there.  Anyhow,  I'll  be  glad  to  get  back  to  wurrk  ; 
I  was  niver  meant  to  be  galivantin'  round  the  globe. 
Where  moight  ye  be  going  now  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  to — to  ask  for  a  friend,"  Stephen  an- 
swered hesitatingly. 

"  I'm  afraid  this'll  be  my  last  noight  in  London. 
I  tell  ye,  Wishart,  come  and  take  dinner  wid  me  to- 
noight — let's  dine  at  the  Holborn  ;  there  it  is  yonder, 
across  the  street — see  the  gold  letters  ?  Mate  me 
there  at  siven-thirty.  Sure  it's  Froiday,  and  I'll  have 
to  lave  the  mate  alone  ;  but  I'll  ate  a  couple  o'  whales. 
We'll  have  some  plain  livin'  and  high  thinkin'. 
Siven-thirty,  moind.  Good-bye  just  now." 

The  noble  hearted  priest  departed  down  Chancery 
Lane,  and  Stephen  hailed  a  hansom,  ordering  the 
driver  to  hurry  to  the  Army  Refuge,  the  mention  of 
which  stirred  his  heart  to  its  profoundest  depths. 

One  by  one  familiar  places  went  flying  past.  Last 
came  the  fountain,  the  tiny  park,  the  bench  on  which 
they  had  sat  together  in  the  morning  sun.  Then  the 


LONDON  And    The    CHASE       359 

carriage  stopped  before  the  door  and  in  a  moment 
Stephen  was  within.  His  first  enquiry  was  for  the 
Commander. 

"  She's  not  here,"  he  was  informed  briefly,  she's  in 
America — but  we  expect  her  home  shortly  now." 
The  informant  wondered  at  the  shadow  that  fell  on 
Stephen's  face.  He  stood  irresolute.  Suddenly  he 
heard  a  voice  that  he  had  heard  before. 

"  Why,  Mr. — what's  the  name  now  ?  Oh,  yes,  Mr. 
Wishart !  Aren't  you  Mr.  Wishart  ?  I'm  so  glad  to 
see  you  again.  It  was  you  that  came  here  with  that 
lovely  girl.  Come  away  in  and  sit  down." 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Yuill,  is  this  you  ?  I'm  just  as  glad 
to  see  you — no,  thank  you,  I  can't  wait.  But  I 
wanted  to  ask  you  about  that  very  person.  I  wasn't 
sure  but  she  might  be  in  London — and  I'm  here  my- 
self as  you  see,"  he  added,  smiling,  "  so  I  thought  I 
would  call  and  enquire." 

He  looked  as  carelessly  as  he  could  into  the  ma- 
tron's kindly  face ;  a  glance  convinced  him  that  she 
knew  more  than  he  had  allowed  for. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Wishart,"  she  began  nervously  and  in 
the  gravest  of  tones,  "  why,  Mr.  Wishart,  I  thought 
— I  thought  .  .  .  you  know  Miss  Hastie  was 
sent  on  to  Edinburgh  after  she  enlisted  here.  And 
.  .  .  didn't  you  see  her  there  afterward?  And 
we  were  all  told  that  she  .  .  ."  The  matron 
stopped,  embarrassed. 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  assented,  in  a  tone  scarcely  audi- 
ble, "  yes,  I  understand — and  she  is  not  here  ?  " 

"  No,"  the  woman  averred  delicately,  taking  the 


36o  THE    UNDERTOW 

cue  and  avoiding  further  questions,  "  did  you  fancy 
she  might  have  returned  to  Army  work  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  answered  sadly,  "  I  fancied  per- 
haps she  had.  But  she  is  not  here?  No,  you're 
sure  of  that  ?  If  she  should  be  with  the  Army  any- 
where in  London,  how  could  I  find  it  out  ?  " 

The  matron  pondered  a  moment.  "  I  don't  think 
it's  likely,"  she  said,  "  but  the  nearest  to  any  exact 
information,  you  could  get  at  the  Headquarters  on 
Victoria  Street — near  the  Mansion  House,  you 
know." 

Stephen  turned  toward  the  door.  "  I'll  try  there," 
he  said  heavily ;  "  but  the  Commander's  not  in  Lon- 
don ?  Nor  the  General  ?  " 

Both  enquiries  were  answered  in  the  negative,  the 
Commander  being  in  America,  the  General  visiting 
at  a  Scottish  country-seat. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Stephen  was  plying  his 
quest  at  Headquarters.  But  the  result  was  as  fruit- 
less as  before,  and  he  trudged  back  with  leaden  heart 
to  keep  his  engagement  with  Father  O'Rourke  at  the 
Holborn  Restaurant. 

Whatever  the  altitude  of  the  thinking,  the  living 
was  certainly  plain  that  night ;  for  it  was  Friday  to 
them  both. 

"  Come  away  and  have  a  smoke,"  Father  O'Rourke 
said  when  they  had  finished,  "  it's  only  a  step  to  the 
Inns  of  Court  where  I  have  a  room.  You're  toired 
out,  my  boy.  Come  away  and  have  a  chat." 

Gaining  the  hotel,  but  a  few  minutes  had  passed  in 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE       361 

general  conversation  when  Stephen  introduced  the 
subject  to  which  the  priest  had  referred  earlier  in  the 
day,  that  of  the  former's  visit  to  St.  Anne's.  Tim- 
idly, yet  with  kindling  emotion,  he  told  the  wonder- 
ing priest  of  the  influence  his  sermon  had  had  upon 
him,  of  the  new  vision  of  the  Saviour  that  had  been 
given  him  in  the  failing  light,  of  the  awakening  his 
soul  had  experienced  in  the  Romish  temple. 

The  priest's  face  was  aglow.  "  It's  the  Lord's  doing, 
my  boy,"  he  said  in  a  thrilling  voice,  "  and  the  Lord 
works  in  all  the  churches — sometimes  in  none.  I'll 
tell  you  something  about  myself.  I  was  a  poor  stick 
of  a  priest  till  I  happened  one  night  to  hear  that  great 
American  preacher,  Moody — you  know  him.  Well, 
I  got  a  blessing  that  night  that'll  last  me  till  I  die.  By 
the  way,  I  heard  a  great  Protestant  preacher  here  last 
Thursday.  Be  sure  you  go  to  hear  him — right  down 
here  on  the  Viaduct ;  were  you  ever  there  ?  " 
"  No,  I  don't  think  so.  What's  his  name  ?  " 
"  I  can't  just  recall  it — but  his  church  is  called  the 
City  Temple,  and  he  preaches  there  Thursdays  at 
noon.  A  funny  thing  happened  when  I  was  going 
in ;  just  as  I  got  to  the  door,  I  met  a  chap  I  used  to 
know  at  Maynooth — a  priest  too.  Well,  he  was 
making  straight  for  the  Temple  door,  but  when  he 
saw  me,  he  got  ever  so  embarrassed.  After  we  shook 
hands,  he  said, '  Could  you  tell  me  where  I'd  find  the 
Brompton  Oratory  ? '  I  knew  what  he  was  after,  so 
I  winked  at  him.  '  I'm  not  sure  about  Brompton,'  I 
told  him, '  but  if  you're  looking  for  oratory,  come  on 
in  with  me.'  And  I  tell  you  we  found  it.  That  man 


362  THE    UNDERTOW 

should  be  a  Cardinal.  It  was  great.  And  at  the 
close,  if  O'Gorman  and  I  weren't  standing  up,  both 
holding  on  to  one  hymn  book  for  dear  life  and  sing- 
ing away : 

'  Just  as  I  am  without  one  plea.' 

Then  a  lady  sang  a  beautiful  solo — haven't  heard  any- 
thing so  sweet  since  I  heard  your  wife." 

The  priest  paused,  looking  keenly  at  Stephen  ;  for 
the  expression  of  pain  upon  his  face  could  hardly  go 
unnoticed.  Father  O'Rourke  walked  to  the  door 
and  closed  it. 

"  Wishart,"  he  said  as  he  came  back,  "  there's  some- 
thing the  matter.  I  knew  it  this  morning  on  Oxford 
Street."  Then  he  sat  down  beside  Stephen,  his  arm 
about  the  bended  shoulders  as  the  burdened  man 
bowed  low ;  and  gently,  lovingly,  he  wooed  the  whole 
sad  story  from  the  lonely  heart. 

True  symptom  of  the  chastened  spirit,  true  pledge 
of  his  redemption,  Stephen's  plaint  was  not  more  of 
his  later  sorrow  than  of  his  early  sin.  Blood-relations 
seemed  the  two.  At  long  last  Stephen  said,  "  Do  you 
know,  I've  been  wondering  if  I  have  any  right  to 
continue  in  the  ministry.  Do  you  think  such  an  one 
as  I  should  dare  to  preach  to  others  ?  " 

The  old  priest  fixed  his  eyes  earnestly  on  the  young 
minister's  face.  "  Don't  give  up  your  ministry,  my 
man.  This  is  going  to  make  you  into  a  true  priest 
of  God ;  you've  got  your  commission  now,"  and  his 
voice,  trembling  with  compassion,  fell  like  music  on 
Stephen's  troubled  heart. 


LONDON  And    The    CHASE       365 

"  But  you  know  I'm  not  worthy,"  the  latter  began. 

"  Hush,"  interrupted  Father  O'Rourke,  "  that's  for 
the  Master  alone.  You've  got  a  great  chance  now, 
my  man — a  great  chance,  and  don't  you  miss  it. 
There's  nothing  so  sad  as  a  wasted  tragedy — or  a 
wasted  sin ;  a  wasted  sin,  I  say.  Do  you  know  what 
I  can't  forgive  Judas  for — the  only  thing  I  can't  for- 
give him  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  No,"  said  Stephen  ;  "  his  treachery,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  that,  my  boy — I  could  overlook  that,  I 
think.  But  I  can't  forgive  him  this,  that  he  didn't 
turn  at  the  last  and  show  to  the  ages  how  great  was 
the  grace  that  could  save  even  Judas.  He'd  have 
been  the  trophy  of  the  centuries ;  Paul  wouldn't  have 
been  a  circumstance  to  Judas.  And  whenever  a  man 
like  you — or  me — has  his  feet  taken  from  the  miry 
clay,  he  owes  God  the  new  song  that  no  man  can 
sing  as  it  should  be  sung  till  he's  had  the  same  deliv- 
erance. So  go  you  on,  my  boy,  and  sing  that  song 
every  chance  you  get ;  sing  it  as  the  angels  can't,  and 
make  the  most  of  all  God's  done  for  you." 

Gradually  their  talk  turned  to  Hattie;  and  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning  had  crept  upon  them  be- 
fore Stephen  rose  to  go.  Arm  in  arm  they  walked 
a  little  way  along  the  silent  street. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  say  good-night — and 
good-bye,"  the  priest  said,  "  but  I'll  not  forget  you. 
My  heart  will  be  searching  with  your  own.  From 
what  you  told  me,  I  think  it's  Edinburgh  she'd  make 
for — a  woman's  heart  never  forgets  the  grove  where 
she  first  heard  the  love-birds  sing.  I  know  more 


364  THE   UNDERTOW 

about  that  sort  of  thing  than  they  imagine  in  St. 
Anne's.  Now  cheer  up,  my  boy.  Remember,  God's 
a  great  detective ;  leave  the  case  with  Him  and  He'll 
find  her  for  you  yet." 

Then  they  parted  with  mutual  pledge  of  fidelity 
and  love,  each  going  his  priestly  way  and  each  a 
priest  unto  the  other — nor  by  different  hands  or- 
dained. 

Early  the  next  morning  Stephen  presented  himself 
again  at  the  Army  Headquarters  on  Victoria  Street. 
Recognized  and  admitted,  he  asked  the  officer  who 
received  him  for  a  note  of  introduction  to  the  official 
in  command  of  the  Army's  forces  at  the  Scottish 
capital.  This  being  provided,  Stephen  thanked  the 
Commissioner,  adding :  "  Could  you  go  with  me 
down  to  the  Royal  Bank  of  Scotland  ?  It's  not  very 
far — down  at  Bishopsgate  Within." 

The  Commissioner  complied  with  great  alacrity. 
"  I  could  go  right  now,"  he  said  with  a  cheerfulness 
worthy  of  their  destination.  Whereupon  they  set 
forth  together.  Arriving  at  the  bank,  Stephen  pre- 
sented his  letters  of  credit  and  identification. 

"  How  much  do  you  wish  to  draw  ? "  asked  the 
clerk. 

"A  hundred  pounds,"  replied  Stephen.  Which 
were  soon  handed  out  to  him  in  spotless  notes,  mu- 
sically crisp. 

Stephen  drew  the  wide-eyed  Commissioner  into 
the  waiting  room.  "  I  want  you  to  take  this  money," 
he  said ;  "  and  I  want  it  spent  on  an  outing  in  the 


LONDON  And    The    CHASE       365 

country  for  as  many  poor  children  as  it  will  provide 
for.  The  time  and  the  place  to  be  determined  by 
yourselves.  I  went  with  a  lot  of  poor  Edinburgh 
children  once  for  a  day  in  the  country,"  he  added 
softly.  "  It  was  the  happiest  day  of  my  life — and  I 
want  to  commemorate  it  this  way." 

The  Commissioner  was  recovering  as  best  he  could. 
"  Hadn't  you  better  make  it  a  draft  payable  to  the 
General?"  he  suggested  first,  the  business  instinct 
uppermost.  "  I'd  sooner  not  take  the  money,  sir — 
you  can  get  the  draft  marked." 

"  All  right,"  agreed  Stephen,  as  he  called  a  clerk, 
handing  him  the  notes  and  requesting  him  to  frame 
the  document. 

Then  the  Commissioner  opened  his  lips,  that  the 
avalanche  of  gratitude  might  flow. 

Stephen  stopped  him.  "  I'm  doing  this  for  another 
man,"  he  said ;  "  it's  trust  money  that  was  given  me 
by  an  old  farmer  in  Canada — he's  my  father — and  I 
know  he'd  approve  of  the  enterprise.  Will  you 
kindly  make  out  a  receipt  to  Robert  Wishart  ?  I'll 
just  mail  it  to  him  here." 

When  this  had  been  effected,  the  clerk  was  back 
with  the  draft,  which  the  Commissioner  reverently 
deposited  in  a  wallet  that  had  abundant  room.  The 
two  men  walked  together  out  of  the  bank,  parting  on 
Leadenhall  Street,  Stephen  glad  to  escape  from  the 
aforesaid  avalanche  which  the  gallant  soldier  seemed 
powerless  to  repress. 

The  days  came  and  went,  but  the  now  half-despair- 


366  T HE    UNDERTOW 

ing  searcher  still  lingered  amid  sad  familiar  scenes. 
Where  they  first  had  met — the  very  spot ;  the  little 
park,  the  fountain  whose  untiring  stream  flowed  on, 
the  humble  room  in  which  he  first  had  heard  her 
soul  in  song,  the  bench  in  Hyde  Park  on  which  they 
had  together  rested — all  these  were  visited  again  with 
aching  heart,  as  though  he  were  looking  his  last  upon 
them,  even  as  mayhap  he  had  looked  his  last  on  her 
whose  memory  lent  them  their  plaintive  beauty. 

The  hope  that  finally  began  to  languish  in  Lon- 
don was  turning  on  swift  wing  to  Edinburgh,  where 
even  now  it  had  purposed  to  rebuild  its  nest.  And  the 
north-bound  train  that  leaped  outward  from  King's 
Cross  one  darksome  night  bore  among  its  passengers 
the  unwearied  man  whose  heart,  now  high  with 
hope,  now  sickened  with  despair,  was  still  resolute 
upon  its  sacred  purpose. 

Cramped  and  weary,  the  chill  air  of  Scotia's  cher- 
ished city  smote  him  as  he  alighted  the  next  morning 
at  Waverly  station.  He  shivered  as  he  walked  along 
the  platform ;  for  Edinburgh's  climate  was  sent  upon 
it  to  wring  from  its  idolatrous  inhabitants  the  admis- 
sion, reluctant  though  it  be,  that  they  who  seek  an- 
other city,  even  a  heavenly,  have  anything  to  gain. 

Stephen  was  standing,  intent  upon  the  stream  of 
luggage  from  which  he  would  extract  his  humble 
share,  when  a  hand  was  suddenly  laid  upon  his  shoul- 
der, and  a  rich  voice  accosted  him : 

"  Look  here,  aren't  you  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
Atlantic  ?  "  He  turned  to  look  into  the  strong  face 
of  the  great  preacher,  the  same  whose  narrative  of 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE       367 

the  tearful  bootblack — and  whose  sermon  on  "  The 
outjacobed  Jacob  " — had  left  so  deep  an  impression 
on  Stephen's  mind.  Warmly  he  greeted  the  vener- 
able orator,  his  very  presence  a  strength  and  comfort 
to  the  lonely  man. 

"  I  intended  calling  on  you  this  very  day,"  Stephen 
exclaimed  ;  "  are  you  still  at  Charlotte  Square  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I'm  sorry  I  won't  be  at  home.  I'm  going 
to  Berwick ;  my  train  leaves  in  a  few  minutes  now. 
But  you're  the  very  man  I  wanted  to  see.  I've 
something  of  importance  to  tell  you — step  over 
here." 

They  moved  aside  from  the  stream  of  hurrying 
passengers.  "  Mr.  Wishart,  this  seems  nothing  less 
than  providential.  I  was  just  wondering  whom  I 

should  ask  to  preach  in side  Free  Church  next 

Sabbath;  they're  vacant — and  I'm  the  Moderator. 
As  you  know,  it's  one  of  our  strongest  churches. 
But  the  wonderful  thing  about  it  all  is  this — they've 

been  enquiring  for  you.  Professor ,  of  the 

New  College,  recommended  you ;  he  remembered 
your  brilliant  career.  And  stranger  still,  the  very 
last  Sabbath  you  preached  in  your  church  at  home, 
two  of  their  elders  who  were  touring  Canada  hap- 
pened to  be  there.  And  they  brought  back  a  great 
report  of  the  grapes  of  Eschol — I  shan't  tell  you 
what  they  said.  But  the  church  has  had  its  eye  on 
you ;  they  spoke  to  me  about  you.  Of  course  I 
presumed  you  were  three  thousand  miles  away — 
but  here  you  are !  Now  Mr.  Wishart,  you'll  preach 
to  them  next  Sabbath ;  it  seems  an  open  door, 


368  THE    UNDERTOW 

doesn't  it  ?  I'll  have  to  run — just  two  minutes  left. 
But  mark  that  down  for  next  Sabbath — and  I'll 
notify  their  session  clerk;  they'll  be  delighted. 
Good-bye."  And  the  master  of  assemblies  hurried 
to  his  train. 

Stephen  made  his  way  out  of  the  station  up  to 
Princes  Street,  past  Scott's  monument,  along  the 
comely  thoroughfare  to  the  side  street  that  led  up  to 
the  lodging  house  that  had  been  his  home  before. 
Within  which  he  found  the  selfsame  landlady,  who 
welcomed  him  with  delight,  ushering  him  to  the 
very  room  he  had  occupied  so  long. 

The  tidings  he  had  just  received,  grateful  as  they 
would  have  been  in  other  days,  seemed  strangely 
unimportant  now.  Indeed,  his  mind  speedily  dis- 
missed the  matter,  so  utterly  was  it  occupied  with  a 
different  quest.  One  hour  later,  he  was  closeted 
with  the  commanding  officer  of  the  Scottish  staff  of 
the  Salvation  Army. 

"  I've  come  to  ask,  sir,  if  you  have  in  your  ranks 
— or  anywhere  in  your  service — a  lady  that  I  know 
was  once  with  you  here.  Her  name  is  Hattie  Hastie 
— or  possibly,  Mrs.  Wishart,  Mrs.  Stephen  Wishart; 
you  might  look  for  both,"  he  added  earnestly. 

"  I  think  I  should  be  able  to  let  you  know,  sir," 
the  man  rejoined ;  "  we  keep  a  fairly  exhaustive  list. 
Was  your  friend  an  officer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  almost  sure  she  was  one  of  the  subor- 
dinate officers — I'm  sure  of  it,  in  fact.  I've  heard 
her  say  so." 

The  officer  rang  a  bell,  gave  a  brief  order,  and 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE       369 

soon  a  ponderous  book  was  placed  before  him.  Ad- 
justing his  glasses,  he  scanned  it  for  several  minutes, 
turning  from  page  to  page.  Suddenly  he  paused 
and  looked  up,  struck  with  the  white  rigid  face 
before  him. 

"  Would  you  know  her  signature  if  you  saw  it  ?  " 
he  asked. 

But  Stephen  made  no  answer  except  to  rise, 
almost  spring,  from  his  seat,  bending  over  the  book, 
his  lips  trembling,  his  eyes  leaping  hither  and  thither 
over  the  page. 

"  There,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "  there  in  the  right 
hand  corner,"  placing  his  finger  on  the  name. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  other  cried  in  feverish  haste,  "  yes, 
I  see  it — that  is  her  writing.  Where  can  I  find  her, 
sir — of  course  she  must  be  here.  Where  shall  I  find 
her  ?  I  wanted  to — to  see  her,"  he  exclaimed  with 
passionate  simplicity,  no  longer  seeking  to  conceal 
the  flame  that  leaped  from  lip  and  eye. 

"  Please  be  seated,  sir,"  the  man  urged,  looking 
keenly  at  him.  "  I'll  try  and  find  that  out  for  you," 
and  he  touched  the  bell  again. 

"  Send  Captain  Latham  to  me,"  he  ordered  the 
messenger. 

"  Would  you  please  let  me  know,  Captain,"  he  said 
a  moment  later,  "  where  this  lady  is  to  be  found  ? 
This  gentleman  wants  to  know.  Look,  here's  the 
name,"  and  the  two  men  bent  over  the  book  to- 
gether. 

Stephen  stood  a  little  apart,  his  hands  tightly 
clenched,  his  lip  caught  between  his  teeth,  his  whole 


370  THE    UNDERTOW 

soul  in  a  ferment  of  longing.  For  she  was  here, 
somewhere  here — that  much  was  certain ;  and  he 
would  see  her — not  to-morrow — or  some  later  day — 
but  to-day,  this  very  day!  His  brain,  tired  and 
dazed,  swam  with  the  rapturous  thought. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  knell  of  words ;  his  eyes 
closed  and  he  sank  dumbly  into  a  chair. 

"  I  knew  there  must  have  been  a  mistake  some- 
where," he  heard  Latham  saying  in  a  low  tone  to 
the  other ;  "  that's  an  old  list  you've  got — you  didn't 
look  at  the  date.  That  name,  Hattie  Hastie,  isn't  to 
be  found  over  here,"  he  added,  turning  over  the 
pages,  their  cruel  rasping  falling  like  the  stroke  of 
fate  on  poor  Stephen's  tortured  heart. 

His  first  informant  looked  up  in  a  moment  "  I'm 
afraid  we  can't  give  you  any  information,  sir. 
There's  no  trace  of  her  since  she  left  us.  It  seems 
Miss  Hastie  left  for  America  more  than — why  sir, 
what's  the  matter  ?  You're  white  as  death,  sir. 
Wait  a  minute  till  I  ..." 

But  Stephen  heard  no  more.  Blind  and  broken, 
he  groped  for  the  door  and  in  a  moment  was  out 
upon  the  street,  walking  on,  he  knew  or  cared  not 
whither,  struggling  still  to  cling  to  God,  now  and 
then  clutching  wildly  toward  the  hope  that  had  fled 
shrieking  from  his  heart. 

It  was  the  following  Monday  morning ;  and  Ste- 
phen sat  in  his  lonely  room,  his  thoughts  busy  with 
the  days  and  nights  of  suffering  that  had  passed  since 
his  outstretched  arms  had  been  cheated  of  the  treas- 


LONDON  And    The    CHASE       371 

ure  he  had  thought  so  near.  How  they  had  passed, 
he  scarcely  knew — for  his  heart  was  numb.  Yet  the 
despairing  search  had  been  maintained,  in  a  drear 
unconscious  sort  of  way,  so  difficult  was  it  to  re- 
nounce his  confidence  that  she  was  somewhere 
within  his  reach. 

Then  the  Sabbath  had  come  on;  and  he  had 
preached  twice  in side  Free  Church,  to  the  en- 
chantment and  delight  of  its  rich  and  cultured  con- 
gregation. A  great  throng  had  filled  the  splendid 
edifice;  but  the  vastness  of  his  audience  and  the 
grandeur  of  the  church,  and  the  splendour  of  the 
music,  had  made  but  little  impression  on  Stephen 
Wishart.  Unconscious  of  it  himself,  he  had  been 
girded  for  his  work  by  the  hands  of  sorrow,  his  lips 
touched  by  that  living  coal,  his  thought  and  speech 
enriched  by  simplicity  of  motive  and  earnestness  of 
heart.  He  knew  not  with  what  power  his  eloquent 
and  burning  words  had  thrilled  his  hearers,  the 
majesty  of  the  gospel  message  captivating  their  hearts 
as  it  possessed  his  own. 

But  he  did  know,  this  Monday  morning,  that  the 
echoing  bell  beneath  announced  the  presence  of  a 
committee  from  the  church  whose  pulpit  he  had  oc- 
cupied the  day  before.  They  had  informed  him  of 
their  intention  to  wait  upon  him. 

The  grave  and  responsible  representatives  of 

side  Free  Church  did  not  require  long  to  inform 

him  of  their  mission.  The  congregation,  so  far  as 
they  could  learn,  were  a  unit  in  his  favour ;  their  pur- 
pose was  to  ascertain  whether  or  not  they  might  pro- 


THE    UNDERTOW 

ceed  with  the  formality  of  a  call.  A  noble  church, 
an  ample  stipend,  a  generous  vacation,  a  loyal  and 
superior  people,  an  inviting  field  for  toil,  were  the 
features  they  begged  to  submit  for  his  consideration, 
themselves  urging  that  it  might  be  favourable. 

Stephen's  response  was  as  cordial  as  it  was  brief 
and  simple.  A  splendid  independence,  which  his  in- 
terviewers could  not  fail  to  note,  deepened  the  ear- 
nestness of  their  appeal.  To  all  of  which  Stephen's 
answer  was  a  quiet  promise  that  he  would  give  them 
his  decision  in  a  few  days  at  the  longest. 

His  visitors  departing,  Stephen  resumed  the  reverie 
they  had  interrupted,  this  new  claim  upon  him  giving 
it  a  wider  range.  Yet  he  himself  was  compelled  to 
note,  and  with  no  little  wonder,  how  slightly  he  was 
impressed  by  the  mere  attractiveness  of  the  proposi- 
tion that  had  just  been  made.  He  recalled,  with  a 
pathetic  sort  of  humour,  how  intoxicated  he  would 
once  have  been  by  such  a  prospect  as  now  seemed 
powerless  to  allure.  Professional  distinction,  social 
rank,  almost  certain  popularity,  financial  comfort — 
these  had  still  a  glittering  light ;  but  he  knew  the  dif- 
ference now  between  the  glittering  and  the  golden. 
How  paltry  seems  the  treasure,  erstwhile  precious,  to 
a  man  who  is  struggling  for  his  life ! 

Besides,  his  vision  was  growing  clearer.  Clarified 
by  sorrow's  ministry,  his  eyes  were  coming  to  recog- 
nize realities,  his  mind  dimly  groping  toward  the  mas- 
ter truth  that  duty,  and  not  happiness,  is  the  end  of 
life.  The  hope  of  happiness,  the  purpose  to  pursue 
it  till  it  could  no  more  elude  him,  was  fast  ebbing 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE       373 

from  his  mind ;  and  in  its  place  was  welling  up  a  tide 
of  noble  longing,  of  high  resolve  to  take  up  his  cross 
and  bear  it  to  the  end.  Even  if  his  was  to  be  a  wid- 
owed race,  he  would  strive  to  run  it  patiently,  re- 
membering the  Man  of  Sorrows,  gleaning  through  his 
tears  an  ampler  harvest  than  the  scant  sickle  of  hap- 
piness had  ever  reaped. 

His  reflections  were  disturbed  by  a  gentle  knock ; 
a  servant  opened  the  door  and  handed  him  a  letter. 
He  checked  an  exclamation  of  surprise  as  he  remarked 
the  foreign  stamp,  quickly  recalling  that  he  had  given 
his  father  his  old-time  Edinburgh  address. 

To  his  amazement,  he  saw  the  Morven  postmark 
on  the  letter.  Eagerly  he  tore  it  open  and  plunged 
into  its  contents,  a  sense  of  awe  upon  him,  as  though 
the  Master  of  the  harvest-field  were  standing  in  the 
room.  For  the  letter  went  on  to  say  that,  having  se- 
cured his  address  from  his  father,  the  elders  of  the 
Morven  congregation  wished  to  inform  him  of  the 
vacancy  that  had  suddenly  fallen  on  their  church ; 
moreover,  that  their  people  had  not  forgotten  their 
former  choice,  and,  knowing  that  he  had  resigned  his 
charge  in  Hamilton,  were  anxious  to  ascertain  if  they 
might  now  hope  to  secure  him  as  their  minister. 
They  were  conscious  of  the  apparent  presumption, 
of  the  comparative  obscurity  of  their  church,  etc., 
etc. ;  but  the  feeling  was  unanimous  and  strong,  and 
the  leading  of  Providence  would  seem  to  indicate  that 
they  at  least  should  lay  their  case  before  him.  Would 
he  be  so  kind  as  to  reply  at  his  earliest  convenience  ? 
Should  he  entertain  their  proposal,  might  not  arrange- 


374  THE    UNDERTOW 

ments  for  his  settlement  be  completed  in  his  absence  ? 
And  more  there  was,  of  equally  earnest  tone. 

Stephen  read  the  letter  again  and  again.  It  was 
the  same  hand,  he  noted,  as  had  penned  the  appeal 
of  so  long  ago,  an  appeal  so  condescendingly  de- 
clined. But  how  different  the  heart  that  hearkened 
now  to  their  reuttered  call !  For  Stephen  felt  almost 
a  transport  of  joy,  as  though  he  had  been  called  to 
the  ministry  anew.  He  remembered,  too,  sweet  soft- 
ness in  the  thought,  the  yearning  of  an  absent  one 
for  the  very  field  of  labour  that  was  now  within  his 
reach  ;  and  the  humble  folk  of  the  distant  parish  grew 
precious  in  his  sight. 

No  sense  of  sacrifice,  no  misgiving  as  to  duty,  no 
rival  claim  of  statelier  church,  shadowed  the  eager 
gladness  with  which  he  took  up  his  pen ;  nor  did  he 
lay  it  down  till  he  had  written  the  Morven  session  his 
full  acceptance  of  the  call,  promising  them  an  un- 
stinted ministry,  asking  their  unstinted  prayer. 

As  he  posted  the  letter  that  was  to  gladden  the 
hearts  beyond  the  sea,  Stephen's  mind  reverted  to  the 
visit  he  and  Hattie  had  made  to  the  placid  country 
scenes  that  were  now  to  be  mingled  with  his  life.  A 
quick  association  of  ideas  called  up  before  him  a  day 
of  kindred  memories,  sweet  and  rural,  though  more 
sacred  far.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  looked  at 
his  watch,  then  started  hurriedly  toward  the  Waverly 
station.  An  uncontrollable  impulse  bore  him  on. 
He  was  just  in  time  to  purchase  a  ticket  to  Kimlachie, 
and  board  the  train  that  steamed  out  of  the  crowded 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE       375 

station,  as  it  had  departed  once  before  with  its  load 
of  raptured  misery. 

Soon  he  stood  where  he  had  stood  long  ago  among 
the  boisterous  children  from  the  slums,  the  sunlit 
woods  still  decking  the  noble  hill,  as  on  that  golden 
summer  day  that  had  poured  the  blessedness  of  heaven 
into  his  brimming  heart. 

He  walked  reflective  across  the  fields,  so  vivid  when 
he  saw  them  last  with  their  stream  of  happy  waifs. 
Once  and  again  he  caught  the  thrilling  sight  of  a  busy 
flitting  form,  once  and  again  he  saw  the  wayward  hair 
and  glowing  face  of  her  who  had  moved  as  queen 
amongst  them  all.  But  the  laughter  died,  and  the 
vision  vanished,  and  the  hills  were  bare. 

Reverently  he  made  his  way  into  the  woods.  A 
sort  of  awe  possessed  him,  as  though  venturing 
within  some  great  cathedral  whose  paling  grandeur 
waits  as  vassal  on  the  silent  form  before  the  altar, 
vested  in  statelier  pomp.  Of  a  sudden,  he  felt  that  he 
should  walk  no  farther  ;  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  he 
saw  the  grassy  mound  that  was  now  life's  altar  place 
to  him  forever. 

But  no  trembling  form  rested  on  it.  The  slanting 
sun  still  kissed  the  quivering  leaves  ;  the  gentle  wind 
still  went  its  whispering  way ;  the  faithful  flowers 
still  plied  their  lonely  tack  of  love — but  the  soul, 
the  soul  of  things,  was  gone. 

Still  standing,  still  with  uncovered  head,  his  broad- 
ing  heart  gleaned  the  place  of  its  every  memory, 
laying  up  treasure  against  the  famine  that  must  fall 
when  he  went  his  way. 


376  THE    UNDERTOW 

Timidly,  faintly,  he  called  her  name. 

"  Hattie,  my  Hattie."  But  the  cry  was  really 
meant  alone  for  God  and  no  human  voice  made 
answer. 

Heavily,  as  men  turn  from  the  grave  where  their 
children's  mother  lies,  he  began  his  way  backward 
to  the  open,  the  heartless  sunbeams  laughing  about 
him  as  he  went. 

He  had  barely  emerged  from  the  sheltering  woods 
when  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices.  Looking 
upward  to  the  brow  of  the  adjoining  hill,  he  ob- 
served two  men  walking  arm  in  arm  toward  the  dis- 
tant mansion.  The  one  nearest  him,  he  knew  at  a 
glance.  That  stalwart  form  would  be  recognizable 
anywhere.  It  was  no  other  than  the  General,  his 
uniform  distinguishable  from  where  Stephen  stood. 
The  great  soldier  looked  even  younger,  more  martial, 
more  alert  than  when  he  had  seen  him  last,  that 
memorable  night  on  which  he  first  had  heard  his 
darling's  voice  in  song. 

Quickening  his  pace,  he  was  soon  sufficiently 
close  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  General  and 
his  friend.  The  former's  eye  fell  upon  him  first, 
and  Stephen  raised  his  hat,  advancing  with  out- 
stretched hand. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  General  as  he  returned  the 
salutation,  "  I  surely  know  your  face — just  a  minute 
now;  don't  tell  me.  Why,  certainly,  you're  the 
young  minister  I  met  once  at  our  Poplar  barracks  ;  I 
remember  you  distinctly  now.  It  was  a  lady  friend 
of  yours  that  sang  that  night,  and  I  don't  know 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE       377 

when  I  have  heard  such  a  glorious  voice.  I'm  glad 
to  see  you.  How  goes  the  battle  ?  " 

Stephen  answered  briefly,  then  enquired  for  the 
General's  health. 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right — have  no  time  for  anything  else. 
Excuse  me,  I  should  have  introduced  you.  This  is 
my  friend  and  faithful  ally,  Sir  Hector  Sinclair — he's 
got  a  higher  title  than  that  too,"  he  added,  as  the  men 
shook  hands.  "  He's  one  of  our  best  advisers ;  and 
he  gives  us  the  freedom  of  these  heavenly  fields  every 
summer  for  our  waifs." 

Stephen  expressed  his  pleasure  at  making  so 
worthy  an  acquaintance ;  the  latter  invited  him  to 
accompany  them  to  the  arbour  and  join  them  in  a  cup 
of  tea.  As  they  walked  along,  Stephen  ventured  to 
enquire  for  the  Commander,  expressing  his  disappoint- 
ment that  she  was  in  America. 

"  If  you're  spared  to  reach  that  summer-house 
yonder,  I  expect  you'll  find  her  waiting  there  for  us," 
said  the  General  laughing.  "  She  landed  at  Glasgow 
last  night — at  Greenock  rather — and  came  on  here 
to  meet  me  this  morning.  It  doesn't  take  long  to 
trade  continents  nowadays." 

Stephen  concealed  the  emotion  that  he  felt  as  he 
looked  again,  which  he  did  a  few  minutes  later,  upon 
the  winsome  countenance  that  so  vividly  recalled 
another.  Presented  to  the  gracious  hostess,  the 
little  company  gathered  about  the  table. 

Presently  the  Commander  began  archly  : 

"  Mr.  Wishart,  I've  a  little  crow  to  pick  with  you." 

"  A  very  black  one  ?  "  responded  Stephen. 


378  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Yes,  pretty  black.  Theft's  a  dreadful  thing,  Mr. 
Wishart — and  however  did  you  dare  to  steal  away 
that  lovely  girl  they  all  admired  so  in  Edinburgh  ? 
Oh,  you  needn't  blush  like  that ;  I  know  all  about  it." 

Stephen's  reply  was  inarticulate,  and  the  blush  was 
paling  fast. 

"  It  would  just  serve  you  right,"  the  Commander 
went  on,  "  if  I  wouldn't  tell  you  the  little  bit  of  news 
I  have.  Especially  as  you»should  have  brought  her 
with  you — were  you  afraid  we'd  keep  her  ?  But  I'll 
forgive  you — a  woman  can't  keep  news  anyhow. 
Well,  it's  this — I  saw  her  in  New  York.  I  was  driv- 
ing on  Broadway  the  day  before  I  sailed,  away  down 
near  the  City  Hall,  and  I  saw  her  from  the  carriage 
window  as  plain  as  could  be.  I  made  the  driver  stop 
at  once — she  hadn't  seen  me — and  I  got  out  and 
hurried  to  where  I  saw  her.  But  there  was  such  a 
crowd,  and  she  had  gone  and  .  .  ." 

The  Commander  stopped,  amazed — for  Stephen's 
desperate  struggle  for  control  was  over.  He  was 
standing  up,  his  arm  half  outstretched,  while  the  cup 
rocked  in  its  saucer,  the  hot  tea  spilling  unnoticed 
on  his  hand.  His  face  was  blanched  and  his  eyes 
were  staring  at  the  Commander  with  glassy  steadi- 
ness. 

"  You  saw  her  ?  "  he  whispered  in  a  ghostly  voice, 
"  you  saw  her,  did  you  say  ?  And  are  you  sure  it 
was — it  was — my  wife  ?  "  he  added,  coming  closer 
to  her,  his  hand  outstretched  as  before. 

"  Oh,  do  tell  me  .  .  ."  began  the  Commander, 
"what  can  there ?" 


LONDON  And    The   CHASE       379 

"  Are  you  sure  it  was  my  wife  ?  "  Stephen  broke 
in  again,  his  voice  loud,  almost  stormy. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Wishart,"  the  other  said  quickly,  the 
colour  retreating  from  her  cheek ;  "  it  was  Hattie 
Hastie — isn't  she  your  wife  ?  " 

Stephen's  smile  was  pitiful  to  behold,  so  strong,  so 
anguished  was  it. 

"  Yes,  please  God,"  he  answered  in  a  tone  so  low 
that  they  could  scarcely  hear,  "  but  you  didn't  find 
her  ?  You  didn't  speak  to  her  ?  You  don't  know 
where  she  is  ?  "  he  cried,  the  voice  rising  again,  and 
the  questions  spurting  from  his  lips  as  if  by  no  voli- 
tion of  his  own.  He  laid  his  cup  and  saucer  on  the 
tray,  but  his  eyes  never  moved  from  the  Commander's 
face. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wishart,  I'm  so  sorry — of  course,  I 
don't  understand !  No,  I  couldn't  find  her ;  I've 
told  you  all  I  know,"  and  the  words  were  gentle,  full 
of  pity.  "  But  I'm  sure  she  is  in  New  York — at 
least,  I'm  sure  she  was  there  ten  days  ago." 

Then  a  dense  silence  fell  upon  them  all.  Stephen's 
eyes  were  far  away,  fixed  upon  a  distant  fringe  of 
woods.  Then  they  turned  toward  the  now  setting 
sun,  looking  far  beyond  it,  searching  the  farmost 
west  that  held  the  treasure  of  his  life. 

Suddenly  he  turned  to  his  silent  company  and 
began  to  bid  them  a  grave  farewell.  His  host  re- 
monstrated gently ;  "  We  would  have  been  glad  to 
have  you  stay  till  morning,"  he  said  earnestly. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  friends,"  answered  Stephen, 
looking  toward  them  all,  "  I  can't  tell  you  what  is 


380  THE    UNDERTOW 

in  my  heart.  Perhaps  you  know.  But  you  will 
let  me  go  without  further  words — I  shall  not  rest 
anywhere  till  the  morning  comes." 

Then  they  every  one  spoke  some  farewell  word  of 
comfort — except  the  General  alone,  whose  quiver- 
ing lips  refused. 


XXX 
By    W A  Y    of    The    CROSS 

THE  next  morning  found  Stephen  in  Liver- 
pool, and  at  the  booking  office  of  the  White 
Star  line.  An  intermediate  passage  was  the 
best  he  could  secure  on  the  crowded  vessel,  but  this 
mattered  little,  since  the  second  cabin  is  not  one  whit 
less  fleet  than  the  saloon.  Neither  the  one  nor  the 
other  was  swift  enough  for  the  silent  traveller  who 
smiled  with  sad  contempt  at  the  boisterous  eagerness 
of  the  men  who  gambled  daily  on  the  mileage ;  for 
he  knew  the  deeper  hazard  of  one  whose  own  soul's 
happiness  was  the  stake. 

The  first  day  at  sea  was  spent  in  unbroken  pon- 
dering. Hope  was  reviving  in  his  heart ;  for  had  he 
not  met  one  who  had  certainly  seen  her  face  ?  Per- 
haps, too,  the  sense  of  homegoing  upheld  him  more 
than  he  realized.  He  found  himself  counting  eagerly 
on  seeing  Reuben  and  his  aged  father  once  again. 
The  thought  of  Reuben  started  a  little  stream  of  joy 
in  his  troubled  mind,  and  he  took  again  from  his 
pocket  the  letter  from  Bessie  that  had  reached  him 
but  an  hour  before  he  left  Edinburgh  for  the  South- 
ern port.  It  had  had  little  consideration  amid  the 
ensuing  excitement,  but  now  he  pondered  its  con- 
tents with  subdued  and  thankful  gladness. 

For  Bessie  had  written  the  momentous  news  that 
she  and  Reuben  were  at  last  man  and  wife,  quietly 

381 


382  THE    UNDERTOU/ 

married  by  Mr.  Shearer  at  the  country  church. 
Stephen's  heart  melted  within  him,  the  tears  refusing 
to  be  bidden  back,  as  he  read  Bessie's  story  of  how 
she  had  insisted  on  telling  everything  to  Reuben,  all 
about  her  fickleness,  her  childhood's  love  for  his 
younger  brother,  her  weakness  in  cherishing  all  that 
she  would  now  disclose.  "  Oh,  Stephen,"  the  letter 
went  on,  "  you  should  have  seen  Reuben  at  his  no- 
blest. I  really  don't  believe  there  ever  was  another 
man  as  good,  as  truly  good,  as  Rube.  He  just  took 
me  in  his  arms  and  kissed  the  words  back — even 
when  I  wanted  to  say  more — and  he  said  he  wouldn't 
hear  any  more ;  he  said  it  was  only  natural  for  any 
one  to  care  for  you — and  a  lot  of  other  lovely  things. 
But  what  comforted  me  most  was  when  he  said  he 
knew  I  loved  him  the  best  in  the  whole  world  now, 
or  else  I  wouldn't  have  wanted  to  tell  him  everything. 
And  oh,  Stephen,  I  love  him  more  and  more  since 
we  got  married ;  and  I'm  going  to  give  my  life  to 
prove  to  him  that  my  whole  heart  is  his  forever. 
And  we're  going  to  live  right  here  with  father — and 
we're  so  happy.  And  Rube  says  all  we  want  now  is 
you  and  Hattie." 

Then  followed  some  eager  enquiries  for  the  well- 
loved  fugitive,  Stephen's  fancy  leaping  to  join  the 
chase. 

The  next  day  was  a  torture  as  it  dragged  its  crawl- 
ing way.  A  torment  of  impatience  seized  him — but 
relief  came  from  an  unexpected  quarter.  A  steerage 
passenger  was  reported  to  be  dying.  Stephen  asked 
to  be  shown  to  his  quarters  and  for  a  time  his  soul 


By    WAY  of   The    CROSS          383 

forgot  its  burden  in  its  ministry  to  the  suffering  man. 
This  experience  opened  the  door  for  a  service  he 
found  it  the  keenest  joy  to  render  to  one  and  another 
of  the  lowly  travellers ;  and  when  at  last  the  vessel 
rounded  Sandy  Hook  the  name  oftenest  upon  the 
lips  of  the  poor  foreigners,  the  sick,  the  friendless, 
was  that  of  the  man  whose  transient  ministry  had 
brought  as  much  of  comfort  as  it  gave. 

Stout  indeed  the  heart  would  need  to  be  that  fain 
would  ply  its  search  among  the  millions  of  New 
York.  Yet  this  was  what  Stephen  had  resolved  to 
do,  unable  though  he  was  to  form  any  plan  as  to  how 
it  should  be  done.  No  sooner  had  he  disembarked 
than  he  hurried  eagerly  to  lower  Broadway,  walking 
up  and  down  for  nearly  an  hour  in  the  neighbour- 
hood that  the  Commander  had  described.  The  rest- 
less crowds  rolled  about  him,  the  roaring  traffic  never 
ceased,  the  chime  of  overhanging  bells  mingled  with 
it  all,  as  Stephen  wandered  to  and  fro  himself  pitying 
the  poor  faint  clue  that  held  him  to  the  spot. 

Thus  passed  the  days,  seeking  here  and  everywhere 
his  lost  one,  the  search  still  unrewarded.  Foiled  and 
despondent,  one  late  afternoon  found  him  in  his  room 
at  the  St.  Denis.  The  chimes  of  Grace  church,  im- 
mediately opposite,  sprinkled  their  sweet  melody 
about,  somehow  intensifying  the  loneliness  that 
settled  round  him  like  a  cloud.  His  torture  lay  in 
the  assurance  that  his  wife  was  in  the  same  city  as 
himself,  yet  beyond  his  reach,  hidden  somewhere  in 
the  billowy  depths  of  an  ocean  he  could  not  penetrate. 


384  THE    UNDERTOW 

Suddenly  the  thought  drifted  in  upon  him  that  of 
all  the  thousands  of  New  York  he  knew  no  other  one 
but  her.  Half  curiously,  he  fell  to  searching  the  ac- 
curacy of  this ;  and  suddenly  remembered,  his  face 
lightening  a  moment,  that  his  old  travelling  compan- 
ion and  Edinburgh  classmate,  Ernest  Mather,  was 
now  a  minister  somewhere  in  the  mighty  city.  He 
had  heard  of  him  incidentally  once  or  twice. 

A  moment  later  he  summoned  a  servant  and  asked 
for  a  directory  of  the  city.  A  brief  search  yielded 
him  the  name  he  sought,  "  Rev.  Ernest  Mather, 
B.D  " ;  nothing  the  address,  he  set  forth  to  find  his 
friend. 

As  he  alighted  from  the  car  he  noted  with  surprise 
the  humble  character  of  the  houses,  nor  was  the  one 
at  which  he  ultimately  paused  much  superior  to  its 
neighbours.  A  plate  at  the  side  of  the  door  informed 
him  that  this  was  a  mission-house,  the  headquarters 
of  the  workers.  He  felt  a  thrill  of  admiration  for  the 
whole-souled  Mather,  whose  gifts  and  culture  he  well 
knew  could  win  him  a  conspicuous  place.  Happy 
Mather ! 

Stephen  rang  the  bell  and  the  door  was  opened  in- 
stantly by  an  elderly  woman,  who  answered  his  en- 
quiry with  the  disappointing  intelligence  that  Mr. 
Mather  was  away  from  home. 

"  He's  at  a  conference  in  Albany,"  she  said, "  gone 
for  three  days." 

Stephen  had  given  her  his  hotel  address  and  was 
about  to  turn  away,  when  a  tiny  voice  rose  from  the 
neighbourhood  of  his  knees. 


By    WAY   of   The    CROSS  385 

"  Please,  Totty  wants  some  one  to  pray." 

"  What  ?  "  said  the  matron  in  surprise. 

"  Totty 's  worse,  and  mother  sent  me  for  a  preacher. 
Totty  wants  the  lady — but  we  don't  know  where 
she  is." 

Very  gently  the  kind-hearted  housekeeper  told  the 
child  how  helpless  she  was  to  aid  her,  not  a  single 
worker  being  in  the  house.  The  poor  urchin  began 
to  sob  broken-heartedly. 

"Ain't  there  nobody  to  pray?  Totty  won't  be 
long." 

Stephen  stooped  over  and  turned  the  tear-stained 
face  upward  with  his  hand. 

"  Would  you  trust  me,  little  one  ?  "  he  asked,  almost 
reverentially.  "  I'm  a  minister,  my  child." 

The  little  waif  dried  her  tears  as  she  looked  up 
into  the  strong,  loving  face,  hailing  the  pity  that 
shone  from  the  eyes  of  her  new-found  friend.  Her 
answer  was  to  slip  her  hand  into  the  man's  shel- 
tering palm,  leading  him  away.  Ten  minutes  later 
they  halted  at  a  sagging  door,  one  of  its  panels 
broken  in.  Pushing  it  back,  they  climbed  the 
rickety  stairs  and  stole  into  the  room  of  death. 

Squalid  and  poverty-stricken  though  it  was,  the 
Majesty  was  there ;  for  a  child  of  eight  short  years 
was  awaiting  her  coronation  at  death's  impartial 
hands.  The  father  and  mother,  sunken  and  de- 
graded both,  were  sharing  in  the  silent  pomp  that 
clothes  the  humblest  when  they  wait  on  this  august 
ceremony.  Their  faces,  marked  though  they  were 
by  signs  of  low  indulgence,  were  lightened  now  with 


^86  THE    UNDERTOW 

the  glow  of  a  tenderness  that  wantonness  could  not 
destroy,  and  in  each  coarse  and  stainful  palm  there 
rested  a  hand  of  their  little  girl,  whitened  by  disease 
and  pain. 

"  Take  out  them  rags,  Sarah,  and  let  in  more  air — 
she's  worser." 

The  woman  turned  and  plucked  the  obstruction 
from  the  window,  letting  it  fall  upon  the  floor  as 
she  sank  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  again. 

"  Don't  be  afeard,  Totty,"  Stephen  heard  the 
father  say,  the  tears  running  down  his  grimy  cheeks. 
"  Mind  what  the  lady  told  you — about  that  Jesus. 
You  mind  she  said  He  said  there  was  lots  of  beautiful, 
of  beautiful — apartments,  in  heaven.  She  said  as 
how  He  said  if  there  hadn't  'a'  been,  He'd  have,  He'd 
have — have  let  us  know.  Wasn't  that  it,  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Joe,"  and  the  broken  woman  laid  her  face 
beside  her  child's  on  the  soiled  and  crumpled  pillow ; 
"  an'  He'll  come  for  you,  Totty — the  lady  said  He'd 
come  an'  get  you.  Keep  a  lookin'  for  Him,  Totty, 
till  He  comes." 

The  dying  eyes  turned  toward  her  father.  "  Ain't 
there  nobody  to  pray  ?  "  she  murmured. 

Stephen  drew  closer  and  touched  the  unobservant 
man  upon  the  shoulder.  He  started,  looking  ques- 
tioningly  into  Stephen's  face. 

"  I  brung  him,"  volunteered  the  guide,  tiptoeing 
toward  the  bed,  "  there  wa'nt  nobody  else — an'  he's 
a  preacher." 

Without  another  word  Stephen  bended  over  the 
dying  child,  spoke  a  few  words  of  heavenly  comfort, 


By    WAY  of   The    CROSS          ^87 

then  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed.  And  his 
soul  poured  itself  out  in  a  prayer  of  simplicity  and 
power,  the  very  peace  of  God  seeming  to  descend  in 
answer  upon  the  anguished  hearts. 

When  he  arose,  the  childish  eyes  were  fastened  on 
him  with  an  intensity  before  which  he  almost 
quailed,  for  the  challenge  and  searching  of  death 
looked  out  from  them.  Suddenly  they  forsook  his 
face,  roving  downward  toward  the  bed,  then  upward 
to  the  mother. 

"  Where's  the  cross  ? "  she  whispered. 

The  mother  thrust  her  hand  under  the  pillow — 
then  withdrew  it ;  she  groped  a  moment  under  the 
scanty  coverings. 

"  Here  it  is,  darling,  here  it  is,"  and  she  placed  it 
in  the  wasted  hand,  the  tiny  steel  chain  that  was 
attached  lying  on  the  clothes  in  a  little  coil. 

Stephen  glanced  at  it — then  glanced  again ;  and 
his  brain  seemed  to  flame  with  fire.  He  half  reeled 
where  he  stood — for  he  knew  it,  he  knew  it !  The 
size,  the  material,  the  colour,  especially  the  chain, 
all  these  he  marked  with  burning  accuracy ;  and  a 
vision  of  London,  a  glimmering  street  lamp,  a 
trembling  girl,  a  faltering  story,  passed  before  him  as 
in  a  flash  of  midnight  light. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  cross  ? "  he  burst  out, 
forgetful  of  the  decorum  with  which  watchers  wait 
for  death. 

The  startled  look  of  the  father  and  mother  recalled 
him  to  a  sense  of  the  occasion ;  swiftly  he  passed 
toward  the  door,  beckoning  the  older  girl  to  follow 


388  THE    UNDERTOW 

him.  She  did  so,  and  Stephen  drew  her  half  way 
down  the  creaking  stair,  repeating  his  enquiry  in 
hoarse,  beseeching  tones. 

"  It  was  a  lady,  sir,  what  came  to  see  our  Totty. 
She  seen  the  mother  holdin'  Totty  at  the  window, 
an'  she  heard  her  coughin'.  I  think  she  allus  goes 
in  w'en  she  knows  as  there's  sickness  anywheres.  It 
was  her  that  guv  that  little  cross  to  Totty.  She 
was  a  speakin'  a  lot  about  the  cross — an'  about  Jesus ; 
an'  she  showed  it  to  Totty.  She  had  it  roun'  her 
neck,  an'  Totty  took  an  awful  fancy  to  it — an'  last 
night  she  guv  it  to  her,  chain  an'  all.  She  didn't 
want  to  give  it  at  first — but  Totty  cried;  an'  when 
she  guv  it,  she  had  to  pry  one  of  the  links  open  to 
get  it  off.  She  said  as  how  it  wasn't  never  off  her 
neck  afore,  since  her  mother  fixed  it  on." 

Stephen's  eyes  were  flashing  into  the  girl's. 
"  Where  does  she  live  ?  Where  does  she  work  ?  " 
he  asked  in  a  tense  whisper. 

"  She's  at  some  mission,"  the  girl  answered  promptly; 
"  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  where  it  is — only  it's 
called  the  Jerry  Mission,  or  something  like  that.  I 
heard  her  say  so ;  I  know  mother  said  it  was  the 
same  name  as  our  Jerry  that  works  in  Harlem 
and  .  .  ." 

Stephen  heard  no  more.  Down  the  decrepit 
stairs  he  strode,  out  into  the  street,  turning  to  the 
left  in  the  direction  he  thought  would  lead  to 
Brooklyn  Bridge.  Looking  at  his  watch,  he  saw 
that  it  was  but  eight  o'clock — the  very  hour  !  He 
had  gone  not  more  than  half  a  block,  when  he 


By    WAY  of  The    CROSS          389 

suddenly  stopped,  stood  still,  pondered  a  moment — a 
moment  of  inward  battle — then  turned  and  hurried 
back  to  the  poor  tenement  with  flying  feet. 

A  glow  of  shame  burned  on  the  mantled  cheek. 
"  Forsaking  a  dying  child,"  he  muttered  as  he 
scanned  the  shabby  doors  for  the  broken  panel. 
Resolutely  he  climbed  the  shabby  stairs  again  and 
stood  once  more  beside  the  lowly  bed. 

"  She  was  asking  for  you,"  the  father  whispered, 
wondering  at  the  hungry  eyes  that  the  stranger  kept 
fixed  upon  the  little  cross. 

With  infinite  tenderness  he  soothed  the  pillow  for 
the  dying  head,  quoting  the  sweetest  promises,  sing- 
ing portions  of  gentle  hymns,  praying  sometimes  for 
the  children's  Friend  to  come. 

They  were  all  standing  above  the  struggling  one 
when  suddenly  the  struggle  turned  to  peace.  A 
holy  radiance  shed  the  light  of  joy  upon  her  face,  and 
the  little  cross  fell  from  the  pallid  hand,  outstretched 
in  eager  signal. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  she  cried  faintly,  "  He's  a  comin' — 
He's  a  comin'  now." 

The  eyes  that  Stephen  softly  closed  were  still  the 
homes  of  rapturous  wonder.  But  the  crying  mother 
saw  it  not,  engulfed  in  the  billows  of  a  sorrow  she  had 
never  known  before.  Her  husband  knelt  beside  her, 
his  hand  caressingly  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Don't  cry  that  way,  mother,"  he  said,  himself, 
sobbing  as  he  spoke.  "  I  couldn't  stand  it  neither 
only  it  was  Him  as  took  our  Totty.  He  come  and 


390  THE    UNDERTOW 

took  her,  mother ;  I  know  it — for  I  seen  our  Totty's 
face." 

Kneeling  beside  them  both,  Stephen  prayed ;  and 
all  his  prayer  was  to  the  One  who  had  taken  Totty 
home.  When  he  arose  the  mourners  thought  him 
beautiful,  for  tears  like  to  their  own  were  upon  his 
cheeks. 

He  asked  them,  reverently,  if  he  might  have  the 
precious  symbol  their  child  had  held  in  her  dying 
hands.  It  was  reverently  given ;  and  soon,  with  a 
parting  word  of  sympathy  and  love,  Stephen  resumed 
the  quest  from  which  he  had  been  recalled  by  the 
same  Voice  as  now  bade  him  forth. 


"  Yes,  this  is  Water  Street — and  that's  the  Gospel 
mill  ye're  lookin'  for.  See  that  bright  light  in  the 
next  block  ?  No,  the  other  side  the  street,  the  side 
nearest  the  bridge — yes,  that's  it." 

"  That's  the  McAuley  Mission,  the  Jerry  McAuley 
Mission,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Right  you  are ;  that's  what  it  is — never  been 
there  myself,  but  some  terrible  bums  get  made  over 
there  .  .  .  when  you  get  to  the  door  just  go 
straight  in  ;  they'll  make  you  welcome.  Good-night," 
and  the  wayfarer  was  gone. 

Warm  indeed  was  the  welcome  Stephen  received 
as  he  stepped  inside  the  narrow  door  of  the  famous 
mission.  This  was  extended  to  him  by  the  janitor, 
himself  a  beaming  trophy  of  the  place.  Declining 
to  be  shown  forward,  Stephen  took  a  seat  near  the 


By    WAY   of   The    CROSS  &i 

door,  thinking  but  little  of  the  service  that  was  in 
progress,  caring  for  nothing  but  the  chance  of  rind- 
ing his  love  again. 

Soon,  however,  his  curiosity  and  his  emotion  were 
awakened.  For  the  mightiest  enterprise  on  which 
mortal  eyes  can  look  was  going  on  before  him. 

The  address  had  evidently  been  already  given  ;  for 
the  leading  spirit  of  the  place,  successor  to  the  great 
McAuley,  had  left  the  platform  and  was  moving 
round  among  the  men.  Lame  though  he  was,  lean- 
ing heavily  upon  his  staff,  the  infirmity  was  scarcely 
noticed  when  once  the  greatness  and  beauty  of  his 
character  were  recognized,  as  they  were  sure  to  be  by 
any  one  who  had  the  eyes  to  read  them  in  his  face,  so 
marked  by  suffering,  so  full  of  yearning  and  com- 
passion, so  tranquil  with  its  distant  peace.  This 
leader  moved  among  the  human  derelicts,  sitting 
down  beside  one  and  another,  casting  his  line  hither 
and  thither  like  an  eager  fisher  of  men,  wooing  them 
to  decision,  promising  them  the  strength  of  God, 
cheering  them  with  visions  of  victory ;  and,  above 
all  else,  plying  the  great  advantage  of  his  own  rich 
experience,  whispering  the  story  of  his  one-time 
bondage  to  drunkenness  and  all  its  kindred  vice,  his 
face  glowing  and  his  eyes  moistening  as  the  story 
swelled  into  the  song  of  the  redeemed. 

Then  the  testimonies  began.  One  by  one  they 
faltered  forth  from  lips  long  familiar  with  far  other 
sorts  of  speech.  The  drunkard  told  his  story,  told 
how  the  burning  thirst  was  gone,  acclaiming  the 
magic  of  grace  Divine  ;  the  outcast  too,  his  soul  once 


392  THE    UNDERTOW 

honeycombed  with  vice  he  might  not  name,  chanted 
the  song  of  his  deliverance.  And  Stephen  noted, 
his  heart  melted  in  pity  as  he  saw,  the  faithful  wives 
that  here  and  there,  sobbing  to  themselves,  listened  to 
the  wondrous  story,  mutely  praying  that  the  summer 
day  might  last,  trembling  lest  even  yet  they  might 
be  bidden  forth  from  Paradise. 

About  the  time  the  testifying  had  begun,  a  poor 
wastrel  from  the  street  had  stumbled  in  and  taken 
his  seat  beside  Stephen  on  the  bench  near  the  door. 
He  struggled  to  shake  himself  from  his  drunken  slum- 
ber, blinking  wearily  as  he  looked  upon  the  rejoicing 
converts,  their  strange  testimony  filtering  slowly  in 
upon  his  clouded  brain. 

He  recognized  as  former  boon  companions,  one  or 
two  of  those  who  had  reached  the  shore ;  and  a 
strange  expression  of  surprise  and  wonder  mingled 
with  his  drunken  torpor.  A  conflict  of  emotion 
flashed  across  his  sin-stained  face.  Suddenly  he 
arose,  holding  to  the  bench  before  him. 

"  I  want  to  get  what  them  fellows  got — I  don't 
know  nuthin'  about  this  Jesus  Christ,  but  I  want  to 
get  what  them  fellows  has,"  he  cried,  and  his  words 
thrilled  with  the  majesty  of  poverty  and  need. 

In  a  moment  the  noble  leader  was  beside  him, 
limping  swiftly  down  the  aisle ;  a  little  later,  a  new 
trophy  limped  back  with  him  to  take  his  place  among 
the  penitent.  The  leader's  face  was  radiant  with  the 
joy  of  those  who  joy  in  harvest. 

Soon  the  evangelist  took  his  place  upon  the  plat- 
form, signalling  to  a  stalwart  man  who  stood  beside 


By    WAY  of   The    CROSS          393 

him.  The  latter,  with  a  roll  of  music  in  his  hand,  moved 
over  to  the  organ  and  prefaced  his  song  with  a  few 
broken  words  of  testimony.  Three  short  months 
ago,  he  had  been  grovelling  at  the  muddy  bottom  of 
Comic  Opera,  and,  a  little  later,  singing  in  any  bar- 
room that  would  give  him  whiskey  for  his  hire.  This 
story  he  narrated,  his  eyes  cast  down  as  he  told  it ; 
then  he  unfolded  his  music  and  began  to  sing  "  Grace 
that  opened  Heaven  to  me,"  his  face  uplifted  as  the 
words  rolled  on,  till  it  was  turned  in  wistful  tender- 
ness toward  the  struggling  swimmers  in  the  vortex 
he  had  left  behind.  Stephen's  heart  was  full  to 
bursting. 

He  longed  to  rise,  to  take  his  place  at  last  among 
the  blood-besprinkled  ones,  his  need  as  great  as  theirs  ; 
he  longed  to  tell  them  that  he,  too,  had  been  a 
dweller  in  the  slums,  that  no  jail-bird  among  them 
all  had  known  an  imprisonment  more  dark  than  his. 
But  the  moment  passed,  and  he  heard  the  leader's 
voice. 

"  Now,  my  brothers,  we're  going  to  close  the  meet- 
ing. But  remember  I'll  be  praying  for  you  all  to- 
night. And  remember  that  He  is  faithful.  It  was 
a  dying  sailor,  a  Christian  tar,  that  said  with  his  latest 
breath  :  '  Mates,  the  anchor  holds.'  That's  the  word 
I  leave  with  you  all  to-night.  The  anchor  holds  ; 
the  anchor  holds.  Trust  the  Saviour  and  you'll  find 
Him  true." 

The  leader  turned  a  moment  on  the  platform. 
There  was  a  pause — and  Stephen  wondered  why. 
The  next  instant  his  heart  stood  still  and  everything 


394  THE    UNDERTOW 

grew  dim  and  faint  before  him.  For  the  first  note  of 
the  now  gushing  song  took  his  soul  into  its  grip  as 
in  the  hand  of  God.  Rich,  melodious,  powerful ,  loving 
— it  is  Hattie's  voice — thrilling  with  eager  passion, 
sometimes  quivering  with  tenderness  as  she  sings : 

"  Christ  receiveth  sinful  men," 

pleading  in  every  syllable  that  the  wanderers  might 
come  home. 

She  had  almost  finished  before  he  raised  his  head ; 
but  just  as  the  soulful  voice  lingered  on  the  closing 
chords 

"  Tell  it  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

Make  the  message  clear  and  plain, 
Christ  receiveth,  Christ  receiveth, 
Christ  receiveth  sinful  men," 

he  slowly  raised  his  eyes  till  they  could  see  her  face. 
And  the  handiwork  of  the  unseen  was  visible  upon  it ; 
sorrow,  loneliness,  loyalty,  yearning,  mingling  in 
their  toil,  had  crowned  the  always  lovely  face  with 
the  beauty  that  is  not  of  time — and  Stephen  pleaded 
with  God  to  deny  him  not. 

The  motley  throng  was  slowly  filing  out  into  the 
street,  and  Stephen  stood  within  the  darkness,  his 
soul  fixed  in  the  eager  gaze  that  never  turned  from 
the  outflowing  light. 

"No,  thank  you,  it  isn't  far — and  Mrs.  Cardiff  al- 
ways goes  with  me;  her  door  is  next  to  mine,"  he 
heard  the  voice  that  rapt  his  heart  in  fire  ;  and,  steal- 
ing forth,  he  followed  the  dear  form  as  it  glided 
swiftly  homeward. 


By    WAY  of   'the    CROSS          395 

It  was  not  far,  as  she  had  said  ;  and  soon,  bidding 
her  friend  good-night,  she  tripped  up  a  little  flight  of 
stairs.  Her  companion  disappeared,  the  door  slam- 
ming behind  her,  while  Hattie,  stooping  slightly,  tried 
to  adjust  her  latch-key  to  the  lock.  She  had  not 
noticed  Stephen,  though  he  is  now  on  the  very 
bottom  of  the  steps. 

"  Hattie,"  he  cried  softly,  "  Hattie,  wait." 

Amazed,  she  retreated  a  step  toward  the  pave- 
ment, peering  to  discern  the  face  ;  for  an  over-hang- 
ing lamp,  swinging  in  the  wind,  suddenly  darkened, 
glimmering  dimly. 

He  repeated  the  name  again. 

"  Hattie,  forgive  me — I've  come  back.  Oh,  my 
darling,  take  me  back,  take  me  back.  I  want 
you  so — my  wife,  my  wife,"  holding  his  arms  out  to 
her  in  the  darkness. 

No  word  of  chiding,  nor  question,  nor  remon- 
strance, nor  sign  of  fear;  nothing  but  the  sweet 
fragrance  of  love  and  trust  and  healing,  as  she  stole 
silently  into  the  open  arms,  her  own  tightening  about 
his  neck  in  the  old  clinging  way,  slowly  tightening, 
as  they  had  done  in  the  cruel  dreams  that  had  so 
often  mocked  him  since  she  went  away. 

They  sank  together  upon  the  steps,  the  lamp  still 
dim  at  heaven's  bidding  ;  and  the  noises  of  the  night, 
as  once  before,  seemed  dull  and  far  away,  shut  out 
by  a  wall  of  living  fire.  Then  his  lips  sought  her 
own,  upward  turned,  smiling,  waiting,  dewy  with 
gladness,  thrilling  out  their  story  beneath  the  sacred 
touch.  His  hand  roved  to  her  cheek,  her  hair,  her 


396  THE    UNDERTOW 

neck,  dumbly  stroking  them  as  though  he  were  a 
blind  man  longing  to  indentify  his  love. 

"  Come  in,"  she  murmured  by  and  by,  "  I  have  just 
a  little  room  here — it's  a  lodging  house — but  come  in. 
Oh,  Stephen,  I  have  prayed  for  this  so  long.  Last 
night  I  had  the  sweetest  dream — I  dreamed  we  were 
at  Morven,  dear,  you  and  I  together  in  the 
manse." 

He  said  nothing,  but  passed  with  her  into  the  long 
hall,  still  holding  her  close  as  they  walked  along  in 
the  semi-darkness.  She  paused  before  a  door, 
beneath  which  there  flowed  a  gleam  of  light. 

"  All  right,  Mamie,  you  may  run  to  your  room  now. 
And  thank  you,  dear." 

In  a  moment  a  little  girl  came  out,  rubbing  her 
eyes.  She  looked  up  at  Hattie,  beginning  to  speak  ; 
but  Hattie  motioned  to  her  to  be  still,  and  she  passed 
silently  along  the  hall.  They  went  in  together,  and 
Hattie  turned  and  locked  the  door.  Then  she  held 
her  arms  out  to  her  husband,  her  face  shining  with 
the  purity  of  love,  and  he  folded  her  with  silent  rap- 
ture to  his  heart  again. 

"  Stephen,"  she  whispered,  "  you  will  never  leave 
me  again,  will  you,  darling  ?  " 

He  held  her  closer. 

"  Not  even  to-night — nor  ever  ?  You'll  stay  here 
with  us  to-night,  won't  you,  Stephen — my  husband, 
my  husband!"  and  the  face  is  moist  that  rests 
on  his. 

He  started  at  the  word.  She  drew  herself  gently 
from  his  arms,  taking  his  hand  in  hers. 


By    WAY  of   The   CROSS          397 

"  Come,  Stephen,"  she  said,  her  voice  shaking. 
"  Come." 

She  led  him  to  the  bed,  and  they  looked  down  to- 
gether. 

The  room  was  warm ;  and  there  lay,  slumbering 
sweetly,  the  chubby  limbs  all  bare  before  them,  one 
dimpled  hand  thrown  carelessly  above  the  flaxen 
hair,  a  baby  face  which  the  most  careless  eye  could 
tell  was  fashioned  like  the  storm-swept  face  above  it. 

Slowly  Stephen's  arms  crept  about  his  wife,  his 
breast  heaving  stormily,  his  face  wrung  with  this  new 
emotion  of  his  soul.  Long  they  gazed  in  silence,  the 
little  sleeper  stirring  as  they  looked,  Hattie's  glance 
turned  now  and  then  in  eager  pride  upon  her  hus- 
band. 

"Look  at  his  little  feet,  Stephen,"  she  crooned, 
"his  toes — and  his  wee  fingers.  Oh,  just  wait  till 
you  see  his  eyes.  They're  yours,  Stephen,  they're 
yours." 

But  he  spoke  no  word,  nor  turned  his  gaze  away, 
looking  through  swimming  eyes  as  though  he  could 
never  look  enough. 

After  a  little  she  drew  him  gently  downward,  till 
their  faces  met  above  their  child.  The  dimpled  hand 
moved  restlessly,  poised  a  moment,  then  rested  on 
Stephen's  cheek  ;  the  baby  woke,  his  big  eyes  fixing 
their  startled  gaze  upon  his  mother,  then  wandering 
to  his  father's  face.  Wondering,  he  took  a  long  look 
into  the  unfamiliar  eyes,  as  if  afraid  ;  then  suddenly 
the  baby  lips  broke  into  a  smile  that  seemed  to 
Stephen  like  the  light  of  God. 


398  THE    UNDERTOW 

Hattie  lifted  the  little  one  up  between  them,  his 
fingers  toying  with  his  father's  hair.  Slowly  she  sank 
down  beside  the  bed,  her  husband  kneeling  with 
her. 

"  Pray,  Stephen,"  she  said. 

"  I  can't,  Hattie,  I  can't — you  pray,"  his  choking 
voice  replied. 

And  Hattie  prayed,  pleading  her  own  before  her 
God. 


XXXI 

THE    NEW    COVENANT 

HURE  'twas  a  little  bird  that  tould  me  the 
christenin'  was  to-noight — and  I  was  bint  on 
givin'  my  blessin'  to  the  boy ;  and  I've  half 
a  moind  to  salute  the  bride."  Father  O'Rourke's 
merry  laugh  rang  through  the  old  Rosehill  farmhouse 
as  his  eyes  turned,  first  on  the  mite  in  Hattie's  arms, 
then  on  the  blushing  Bessie. 

"  Besoides,  I  wanted  to  see  my  curate  again,"  he 
went  on  jauntily.  "  I  hadn't  but  a  thimbleful  of  him 
in  London — and  that  ould  Maloney,  that  brought  me 
back  wid  his  paralysis,  is  as  hearty  as  a  two-year-old 
again ;  the  ould  sinner,  the  next  toime  I  go  abroad, 
I'll  kill  him  wid  a  club  before  I  go." 

The  priest's  mirthful  banter  was  interrupted  by  a 
voice  without. 

Robert  Wishart,  still  wreathed  in  smiles,  opened 
the  door  and  admitted  his  well-loved  minister. 

"  Come  in,  Mr.  Shearer.  We're  a'  ready  for  the 
bapteezin' — the  bairn's  fine,  never  a  cheep  oot  o' 
him.  Tak  the  rockin'  chair ;  ye  ken  a'  the  folk." 

Close  beside  his  son  stood  Robert  Wishart,  his  face 
anointed  with  the  oil  of  gladness  as  Stephen  and 
Hattie  presented  their  first-born  for  the  holy  rite. 
Mr.  Shearer  addressed  to  them  a  few  words  of  ear- 
nest counsel. 

399 


400  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  What  is  the  child's  name  ?  "  he  then  enquired. 

"  Reuben,"  answered  Stephen  ;  and  as  he  spoke  the 
name,  he  turned,  looking  full  upon  his  brother  with 
ineffable  love  and  tenderness.  Reuben  saw  the 
glance,  interpreting  its  great  significance  with  silent 
joy ;  but  he  did  not  see  another  face,  glowing  with 
reverent  love,  that  looked  on  his  with  a  devoted  pride 
which  was  to  fill  all  his  after  life  with  blessing.  For 
she  stood  close  beside  him,  close  clinging  in  wifely 
love. 

The  sacramental  drops  still  bedewed  the  infant's 
head  when  Father  O'Rourke  took  him  from  his 
mother's  arms,  looking  long  down  on  the  unconscious 
child.  Gently  he  kissed  the  baby  brow,  and  Stephen 
heard  him  murmuring  low  :  "  The  angel  that  redeemed 
me  from  all  evil  bless  the  lad." 

Happy  beyond  description  was  the  little  company 
that  gathered  about  the  hospitable  board,  Robert 
Wishart  at  the  head,  every  word  a  safety-valve  for 
the  joy  that  overflowed  his  heart.  Stephen  was  be- 
side Mr.  Shearer. 

"  It's  this  day  fortnight  you're  to  be  settled  at 
Morven,  is  it  not  ?  "  he  asked  the  former ;  "  I  hope  to 
be  there." 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  answered,  "  and  by  the  way,  the 
elders  have  asked  me  to  give  their  church  a  name. 
It  has  always  been  called  the  Morven  church ;  but 
they  want  something  more  distinctive,  and  they've 
asked  me  to  select  it.  I'm  getting  my  friends  to  help 
me.  At  least,  I  have  asked  my  wife  to  suggest  a 
name — and  you  might  aid  us  both." 


THE   NEW   COVENANT          401 

"  Leave  it  to  your  wife,"  said  Mr.  Shearer,  smiling 
toward  the  lovely  face,  crowned  now  with  the  new 
beauty  of  mother-love. 

The  evening  had  fallen  when  the  company  dis- 
persed, and  Robert  Wishart  was  saying  farewell  to 
Mr.  Shearer  at  the  gate. 

"  I  shud  be  prayin',  I  suppose,  that  He'd  let  His 
servant  gang  till  his  rest  in  peace,  noo  my  cup  o'  joy 
is  full.  But  I  dinna  feel  that  way — I'd  sooner  bide 
a  wee,  and  see  wee  Reuben  a  bit  alang  the  path." 
And  Mr.  Shearer  blessed  the  noble  heresy  as  he  said 
good-night. 

****** 

Richly  blessed  did  the  Morven  worshippers  deem 
themselves  that  Sabbath  morning,  two  weeks  later, 
when  their  new  minister's  first  sermon  flowed  about 
them  in  rich  tides  of  earnestness  and  love. 

Beautiful  was  the  face  that  looked  out  upon  them 
from  the  pulpit  he  was  now  proud  to  call  his  own. 
For  time  is  a  wondrous  workman,  if  he  have  but  the 
proper  tools.  Nor  had  these  been  spared  on  Stephen's 
face;  sorrow,  remorse,  loneliness,  all-torturing  love, 
all-conquering  hope — with  these  ever  favourite  tools 
had  the  untiring  craftsman  plied  his  silent  toil,  paus- 
ing not  to  look  upon  the  labour  of  his  hands,  leaving 
the  fruits  of  his  industry  to  the  great  Taskmaster's 
eye.  In  the  fruitful  night  had  he  done  his  work, 
without  sound  of  hammer  or  blow  of  chisel,  without 
gleam  of  knife  or  glow  of  refiner's  flame.  But  it  had 
been  done,  and  all  men  saw  its  beauty  save  Stephen 
only. 


402  THE   UNDERTOW 

Strength,  tenderness,  compassion,  purpose,  love,  all 
these  spoke  through  the  lips  that  burned  now  with  a 
new  and  chastened  eloquence ;  and  the  peace  of  God 
was  upon  the  hushed  and  rejoicing  throng. 

Before  the  benediction  was  pronounced,  Stephen 
glanced  toward  the  choir  in  the  old-fashioned  gallery 
at  the  end  of  the  church.  Then  he  quietly  took  his 
seat  and  waited. 

Deep  silence  reigned  a  moment;  the  next,  rich 
thrilling  tones  poured  forth,  the  same  he  had  first 
heard  in  far-off  London  when  his  soul  first  awakened 
at  the  voice  of  love.  The  same  hymn,  but  farther  on 
in  its  deepening  stream  : 

"  See  from  His  head,  His  hands,  His  feet, 
Sorrow  and  love  flow  mingled  down. 
Did  e'er  such  love  and  sorrow  meet 
Or  thorns  compose  so  rich  a  crown  ?  " 

Rejoicing  ones  had  detained  him  a  few  minutes  at 
the  church.  And  as  Stephen  hurried  across  the  soft 
sward,  peering  eagerly  toward  the  manse,  the  un- 
clouded sun  poured  down  on  Hattie,  her  eyes  bent  on 
little  Reuben  asleep  in  the  hammock  that  swung 
gently  beneath  the  trees. 

Her  hand  stole  into  her  husband's  as  they  stood 
together  looking  down  upon  the  slumberer's  face. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,"  she  said  eagerly, "  I've  thought  of 
a  name ;  I'm  sure  it's  the  right  one.  Let  us  call  it 
'  The  Church  of  the  NEW  Covenant.'  " 

The  strong  note  of  a  strong  man's  love  was  in  his 


NEW   COVENANT          403 

voice  as  he  took  her  in  his  arms.     "  Yes,  darling,  the 
new  covenant,  new,  my  darling." 

Which  their  lips  sealed  as  they  met  in  silentness 
and  song,  blending  in  the  hymn  of  praise  that  angels 
cannot  learn. 


THE  END 


A  First  Novel 


A  Parish  Romance 


St.  Cuthberfs 

By  ROBERT  E.  KNOWLES 
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ST.CUTHBERT'S 

R.E.  KNOWLES 


jth  Edition 


Absorbingly 
Interesting 


The  Lure  of  The 

Labrador  Wild 

i 

By  DILLON  WALLACE 

'  I  ^HE   Story  of  the  Exploring 
J,      Expedition     conducted     by 
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TM  H:RK  OF  THE 

T./'l  <>  \!K  >:<  V  II  H 


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A  BOOK  one  reads  twice.  You 
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adventures,  and  when  he  is  safe 
home  in  his  Schwartzwald  Castle 
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ship."— New  Turk  Exam- 
iner. 


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FU.U.J  R  R.v.11  C..P.ny 


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>• 

ADELINE  M.TJESKEY 


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•FRANK. 
T. 

BULLEN. 


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environment,  but  very  like  it  in  its  intuitive 
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— Nashville  American. 

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of  the  present  day. ' ' — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

Fourth  Edition 

Dr.  Grenfell's  Parish 

Illustrated.     Cloth,  |r.oo  net. 
"He  tells  vividly  and  picturesquely  many  of  the 
things  done  by  Dr.  Grenfell  and  his  associates. 

— N.   Y.  Sun 


THE    COMPLETE      WORKS     OF 

Ralph    Connor 

The  Prospector  I2sth  thousand 

A  Tale  of  the  Crow's  Nest  Country. 

I2tno,  $1.50 

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Gll?en  1  2th  thousand 

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I2mo,  art  cover,  75C.  net 

"Black    'Rock  450th  thousand 

A  Tale  of  the  Selkirks,  with  an  Introduction  by  Prof. 
George  Adam  Smith.  Illustrated  by  Louis  Rhead. 

I2mo  Cloth,  $1.25 

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The  Sky  Pilot  26oth  thousand 

A  Tale  of  the  Foothills.     Illustrated  by  Louis  Rhead. 

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The  Tlan  From  Glengarry    *(*>*  *"""»* 

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Glengarry  School  Days         jfoh  thousand 

A  Story  of  early  days  in  Glengarry. 

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3m  of  this  outdoor  life."  —  Chicago  Journal. 

FLEMING     H.     REVELL     COMPANY,     Publishers 


A     000118719     4 


